


The Scars That Remain

by SittingInACoffeeShop



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abusive Parents, American Sign Language, Angst, Car Accidents, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I don't hate Nancy she's just in college okay, Neglectful Parents, Not Season 3 Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parental Jim "Chief" Hopper, Permanent Injury, Platonic Steve Harrington & Billy Hargrove, Post-Season 2, Protective Party, TWs at the end of each chapter that needs them, hi nice to meet you i write pain and angst i guess, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:07:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingInACoffeeShop/pseuds/SittingInACoffeeShop
Summary: Shit, it would be incredible if Steve didn’t just slam the door right in his face.Or maybe Steve would punch him.And maybe Billy would let him.Anything to make them feel even. To make Billy feel as though he had paid his dues in some way.orBilly caused a traumatic, life-altering accident years prior and now he just wants to ease his conscience. Problem is, it won't be as easy as he initially thought...what, with a bunch of pissed off kids and a police chief glaring at him on the daily...and the fact that Steve came out of the accident a lot more damaged than Billy first believed.
Comments: 58
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **TWs in end notes**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> **TWs in end notes**

The striped gray and white jumpsuit slipped easily off his shoulders, down his legs, and onto the floor. He stepped out of the heap, appreciating the thought that he would never need to dress in such garb again.

Billy Hargrove was experiencing his first bit of freedom in ages, and it felt absolutely amazing.

The civilian clothes they handed him were his own. They were neatly folded and smelled strongly of mothballs from the storage, but damn it, he didn’t care one bit. He was excited to put them on.

He pulled on the pair of light-washed jeans and slipped the leather belt through the loops. They fit about as well as he remembered, if not a bit pressed against the small paunch he now sported on his gut. Shitty cafeteria food could do that to a person. And he had learned the hard way, after two days of not eating anything, that there was nothing he could do about it. He would have to eat whatever slop they gave him or starve. So, naturally, he chose the slop.

After a couple months of his old workout routine though, he would be back to the prior figure he had boasted around so often. No problem.

He pulled the white t-shirt over his head and distressed denim jacket onto his shoulders. The sleeves squeezed his arms and shoulders a bit, but he didn’t care. It just felt great to get out of that striped jumpsuit. He had become a little softer from the meal plan, but also a bit more muscular considering he had spent every recess period of his sentence exercising.

When evening would come, he’d consume whatever gruel the cafeteria was serving before all-too-willingly retiring to his cell to read whatever book he had in his possession at the time. He had always been a bit of an avid reader, though he never admitted as such for fear of being labeled a geek; yet, he was sure he'd been through more than half of the prison library's books at that point.

So, every night he would lay on his flat, uncomfortable mattress with a book.

Unless the brutal thoughts bullied their way through...

Then, no book would be able to distract him enough. Someone could walk into his cell and toss him the greatest pornographic magazine of all time or a book containing all the secrets of the universe and it wouldn’t matter.

Absolutely nothing would be able to divert his attention from the deep-seated deprecation he would be feeling.

During those cursed nights, no matter how hard he tried, Billy would find himself drowning in his own mind. Voices would speak scornfully at him. Repeat themselves over and over and over in his brain like some kind of furious broken record.

Sometimes, his dad's voice would make an appearance.

Other times, one of the voices would sound like his step-sister, Max.

His own voice would barge through as well.

And occasionally, even the voice of Chief Hopper from that shitty ass town in Indiana.

But the nights with Steve Harrington’s voice were the worst.

Those were the nights it took everything in him to not shout and howl his distress into his dour abode, if anything just to feel the reverberating noise bounce off the cold walls and back into his face.

As he finally neared the exit to freedom, a stoic guard handed Billy a dark leather wallet and a pair of silver aviator sunglasses.

They were the only things he had in his possession on that fateful night.

The wallet still had a bit of wear-and-tear on the edges, just as he remembered. Billy just hoped there was still money inside because, frankly, he couldn’t remember.

Billy tried to keep his stride cool and collected as he walked outside the walls and past the gates, but the bounce of excitement in his step was easily recognizable.

When his boots met the free ground outside, Billy wasn’t sure if he had ever felt so alive.

He breathed in the hot air, wondering if it had always smelled and tasted so good.

After a few long moments of just relishing in the sensation of being liberated at last, he began walking. There were only two directions, so there wasn’t much thinking that went into the decision. He knew a car or something would pass eventually, and when it did, he would be at the ready to hitch a ride.

Haze drenched the air before him, and the light breeze that blew through his short hair wasn’t very relieving in the Arizona heat, but he soaked it all in just the same. After about twenty minutes though, sweat was drenching through the armpits of his denim jacket. He took it off and flung it over his shoulder.

Billy tanned easily, but he could still feel the beginnings of a sunburn licking at the neck his previously long hair used to cover.

Again, he really didn’t care.

He made sure to take in every desert broom he walked past, as well as each scorpion that skittered across his path, unfazed by his heavy, clunking boots.

Finally, he could hear a vehicle somewhere in the distance behind him, and it didn’t take long before he could see it through the blurry heat haze.

He swiveled around and began walking backwards, keeping his eyes on the truck as if it would vanish within the haze that clung to the ever-reaching stretch of desert road. Billy stuck his arm out and thumb up.

Thankfully, the semi-trailer truck slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the road. The window lowered with an obnoxious squeak and the driver leaned out and squinted at him.

“Need a ride, son?” he asked in a twangy accent.

“Yes sir,” Billy responded up at him.

“Well come on then. In the truck,” the man said before spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground below.

Billy climbed up into the passenger seat, the man watching him with visible perplexity the entire time. He was clearly sizing him up, unsure if he was from the prison or just some regular lonesome hitchhiker trying to get somewhere.

“Thank you,” Billy said as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket.

There were a few twenty-dollar bills inside, but the sight of dried blood on the edges of the paper was enough to trigger a bout of nausea to emerge and settle in his gut.

Billy closed his eyes as a phantom whiff of blood made its way into his nostrils. Images of his own face in the rearview mirror of his Camaro raced through his mind; blood was streaming heavily from his nostrils and over his lips. Its warm, coppery taste lingered on the tip of his tongue.

The sticky, red substance pooled down from a nasty cut on his head. It leaked into his eye, but he had been too inebriated to feel the stinging saltiness of it.

Lights were flashing.

There were so many damn lights.

He'd had no idea there _were_ that many damn cops in bumfuck Hawkins.

He could still see, clear as day, the familiar and absolutely wrecked BMW that lay in a heap of twisted metal, oil, and gasoline...

It lay on its roof...

Driver still inside...

“Y’alright over there? Y’look like y’gonna be sick,” the driver spoke around the wad of chewing tobacco tucked under his lip.

Billy hadn’t even realized the truck had started moving again.

He heaved in a breath, willing the sick feeling to go away.

“Money,” Billy ground out, shoving a random wad of bills to the guy.

The driver made a noise of acknowledgement before retrieving the crumpled bills from Billy’s sweaty hand. If he noticed the blood on them, he said nothing of it.

“Can stop ‘n get somethin’ to drink at the next gas station if y’like. Y'look like yer about to keel over,” he commented, taking in Billy’s sudden clammy appearance.

Billy wanted to say he was fine. He wanted to say "no, that would not be necessary." But he could taste the metallic flavor of dehydration on the back of his tongue and the light-headedness that came with it.

“That...that would be good. Thanks," he responded.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, nothing but the sound of tobacco juice being spit into an empty, cracked McDonald's cup and the staticky radio station playing bluegrass music.

“So whassa fancy boy like you doin’ out here in the middle of nowhere?” the man asked. “Lookin’ like you belong in California or some shit.”

Billy chuckled a bit, partly out of politeness and partly from the irony of it all. It really wasn’t all that long ago that he was absolutely desperate to get out of Indiana and back to California. He’d had it all planned out... it was a shitty plan, but it was something.

He was going to get a job, work until he had enough money to get back to the West Coast, and then camp out at whatever motel he could afford. Then he would figure life out from there. It wouldn’t matter, just so long as he was out of shit hole Indiana and back in California.

Problem was, that never happened. He got too caught up in “Ruling Hawkins” that he never quite made it out.

“Well, I’m from there, but uh...that’s not where I'm headed.”

“So where _are_ y’headed?”

Billy continued staring out the window. He rubbed his bottom lip a bit before answering.

“Indiana.”

Oh, the irony.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Jim Hopper plopped behind the wheel of his Chevrolet Blazer. The door gave a noisy metal creak as he slammed it shut, concluding his day's work over and done with.

He took off his tan police hat and tossed it in the passenger seat before running a hand through his hair and rubbing his eyes a bit, feeling the day’s frustrations start to slip away.

He’d had to go out to Merrill Wright’s farm and look over some vandalization that had taken place sometime in the night. Hopper was pretty sure he knew who committed the act; just some trouble-making kids Eleven and the other kids' ages. After dealing with the enraged farmer, he had to head to another part of town where there was a car accident, but nothing too serious. One person went to the hospital for a minor concussion.

Hopper was thankful it wasn’t worse.

After a minute of unwinding, Hopper put the keys in the ignition and backed out of his parking spot.

He didn’t want to be late picking up Steve.

He had been better about getting off work at a specific time... even as police chief. And the fact that the Upside Down shit hadn’t reared its ugly head again definitely helped.

It took almost half-an-hour to get to the hospital that provided Steve’s rehabilitation appointments, and he would kick himself a thousand times if he was ever late and forced the kid to sit there by himself for longer than five minutes.

Ever since his daughter, Sara, had passed, he never thought he would feel any sort of fatherly affection for another kid...let alone _nine_. The plethora of children and teens from Hawkins had barged their way into his heart and he was seemingly powerless to stop it.

Sure, most of them had their own parents...and some of them weren’t even kids anymore. Hell, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve were twenty/twenty-one years old. Yet, with all of them, he felt that same sense of parental protectiveness...even if he really sucked at showing it.

Since that fateful night two-and-a-half years ago, he’d felt an overwhelming sense to protect the Harrington kid from any more harm. Goodness knows Steve's own parents weren’t going to help him out.

Hopper had always held a strong dislike for Steve’s parents, but he couldn’t quite figure out why. He had decided it was just the petty assumption that they were rich snobs. He had found out that his gut feeling about them was correct though. Sure, they had given Steve lodging, money for food, and paid for his hospital bills, but only out of some sort of duty they felt they had.

Besides that, they were shitty parents and Hopper would more likely jump off the quarry cliff than hand Steve over to them.

He had already made that mistake once. He never would again.

The familiar antiseptic smell swept up into his nostrils as soon as he walked through the doors of the hospital.

“Evening, Chief,” the familiar desk clerk greeted, smiling over her glasses at him.

Hopper nodded politely at her and continued walking.

He sat in the specified waiting room, avoiding eye contact with any of the other patrons. He idly sifted through some fashion magazine before tossing it to the side again and sitting back further in the chair with a sigh.

Soon enough, he heard the clunking of a rubber foot on the tile floor and a familiar voice. When Steve came around the corner, Hopper offered a smile, which was returned albeit a little tentatively. The physical therapist was hovering a bit at Steve's side as a precaution, the forearm crutch he had adopted for his right arm was still new to him.

“Hey, how’d it go?” Hopper asked as he walked over.

"Good. Very good,” Dr. Hinchchliffe answered with an assuring smile. “We’re definitely getting better on the crutch."

“Great, that’s great,” Hopper nodded. “Anything new we need to do until the next appointment or...?”

Hopper felt a little guilty asking the therapist such questions when she undoubtedly had already told Steve all he needed to know. Hopper tried to direct the questions at Steve just as much as the therapist so he wouldn't feel so much like a child or invalid; Steve had always had trouble focusing though, even if it had to do with his own wellbeing. A lot of information would go in one ear and right out the other, and it had only gotten worse after the accident.

“He just needs to keep up with what he's already doing. Stretches, exercises...” Dr. Hinchchliffe said, placing a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder as his left arm did a quick involuntary jerk that seemed to ricochet down into his leg.

Thankfully, he didn’t fall from the spasm.

It proved just how much better his balance had gotten since he first started physical therapy.

It was a recovery that was progressing slowly, but he was getting better all the same, and that alone pleased Hopper to no end.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

It was nearing one-thirty in the afternoon when Billy found himself standing at the end of the Byers’ driveway. He’d had a little bit of trouble remembering the way at first, but the route ended up popping back into his brain quickly enough. How could it not? It wasn’t like Hawkins was that big anyway.

Not to mention he still remembered the night he was ordered to find a missing Max.

It was also the night he had beat the shit out of Steve Harrington.

Shit, it would be incredible if Steve didn’t just slam the door right in his face.

Or maybe Steve would punch him.

And maybe Billy would let him.

Anything to make them feel even. To make Billy feel as though he had paid his dues in some way.

The dirt and rocks crackled loudly underneath Billy’s boots as he walked toward the house. Everything seemed so quiet and peaceful. The only other sounds seemed to be birds chirping and the slight bristle through the trees. His boots seemed even louder as he took the final two steps up to the front door.

Billy sighed, trying to fight the nerves that were starting to vibrate through his body.

He couldn’t wuss out now though. He was no coward, he could do this. He came all the way here. He was going to do this.

He had to.

Billy opened the screen door and knocked.

It was only then that he realized...shit what if Steve wasn’t even home? Then what was he supposed to do? And there was no way he could back out now. He had already knocked. What if someone opened the door just to see him pussying away from the house?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the window blinds shift a bit. There were a few moments in which he wondered if anyone was even going to open the door at all. Hell, if Steve _was_ there, Billy wouldn’t blame him for just blatantly ignoring him.

Billy wasn’t so quick to back down though. He rapped his knuckles against the door again more forcefully.

The door swung open, but it wasn’t Steve.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jonathan Byers spat menacingly.

Billy could see Younger Byers and a girl he didn’t recognize standing behind him.

“I’m here to talk to Steve,” he answered lamely.

“Yeah, well he’s not here,” Jonathan said scornfully, making a move to close the door.

Before he could even think twice about it, Billy jutted his foot out to halt it.

“Get away from the door, Billy,” Jonathan warned.

Billy forced his way past Jonathan and into the house. Little Byers stepped back, unease showing on his face and in his doe eyes. It made Billy’s heart twinge a bit in guilt, but he couldn’t find it in him to care too much about it. The kid was fine. Not like he was going to hurt him or anything. He wasn't there to hurt _anyone,_ really.

“He’s not here,” Jonathan said again. “Get out.”

“Guess I’ll just have to wait then,” Billy stated defiantly.

"No. No, you're not. Get out," Jonathan ordered again, voice getting a little louder.

It seemed so out of place coming from the usually soft-spoken guy. Not that Billy had spent that much time around him, if at all. The only thing Billy knew about him was he was sort of a freak. Also that his little brother went missing, died, and came back to life or some dumb small-town legend shit like that.

Billy leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, completely ignoring Jonathan's demands, “So where _is_ Pretty Boy? I don't have all day."

“Doesn’t matter where he is. Get out.”

The brown-haired girl Billy didn't recognize was looking between he and Jonathan in curiosity. There was also a hint of menace in her eyes, and Billy couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit threatened. Which was weird considering this girl could in _no_ _way_ hurt him. It was probably just because he was fresh out of prison and he knew he was at risk of adding trespassing charges to his list of fuck-ups. Yeah, that was probably it.

Billy looked away from the two young teens and back at Jonathan, who was still glaring darkly at him. Billy smirked and looked down, kicking his boot a bit at the carpet.

“Look, Byers... I’m not here for a fight, okay? I came to talk to Harrington, and that’s exactly what I'm gonna do.”

Jonathan felt his nerves burn further in aggravation. This guy was just as cocky and arrogant as he remembered, and he honestly wanted to just punch the smug smile off his face. But he refrained.

“You must be deaf because I already told you...he’s not here," Jonathan spat.

Billy nonchalantly brought his hands out and repeated, "Guess I'll wait then."

“You can’t-” Jonathan started but was interrupted.

“Does Max know you’re here?”

Billy turned to Younger Byers, surprised that he was even saying anything. His expression sobered, superior smirk no longer on his face.

“No."

“You might want to leave then. I mean... if you don’t want her to know you’re here,” Younger Byers said in a way that showed he wasn’t trying to be intimidating at all. Instead, he spoke rather matter-of-fact.

Billy smirked again, “I’m not scared of my little sister, Mini-Byers.”

“Will,” Jonathan corrected in exasperation.

“Alright then... I’m not scared of my little sister, Will,” Billy said, the word “sister” still feeling a bit betraying on his tongue after fighting it for so long.

“If you're trying to skip in and out of town without her knowing, you’re losing your window...she’ll be here any minute. She'll get here before Steve does," Will continued, the strange girl nodding in silent agreement beside him.

“I wasn’t planning on avoiding Maxine while I was here,” Billy said. “Hell, if she's coming by maybe I can knock out two apologies.”

“Apologies,” the strange girl spoke softly.

Billy wasn’t sure if that was a question or...what the hell that was, but he went along with it anyway.

“Yeah...apology for both Steve and Max,” Billy said, and a bristle went through the room at that.

“Wait, you’re here to apologize?” Jonathan asked.

“What the hell did you think I was here for? To punch Pretty Boy in the face again?” Billy scoffed. "Been there, done that, Byers."

“I don’t know, maybe? I- how was I supposed to know?”

“You sure as hell didn’t ask,” Billy goaded with raised eyebrows.

Jonathan shook his head, “Look, it doesn’t _matter,_ okay? You still shouldn’t be here. I think it’s best if you just-”

_“Billy?”_

Everyone turned to see Max standing in the doorway, blazing red hair to match the fiery fury that was progressively appearing in her eyes.

“Max,” the strange girl stated again.

“Yes, I know who it is,” Billy hissed in annoyance.

A gaggle of kids stood behind Max in complete shock. The kids had grown a lot over the past two-and-a-half years Billy had been gone, but he still recognized each and every one of them. Especially Lucas.

That was yet another apology he needed to get off his chest.

“ _What the hell are you doing here?!_ ” one of the kids shouted; Billy probed his brain a bit before remembering his name was Mike Wheeler.

There was so much venom in Mike's voice that Billy actually felt himself shrink a little bit. It was pretty incredible a damn _kid_ could do that to him. The others’ gazes were starting to morph from surprise to anger as well, and it was then Billy finally realized that he was outnumbered...majority of them children, but outnumbered nonetheless.

Max stomped forward, and everyone fully expected her to punch her brother in any area she could reach.

But to everyone’s surprise, she wrapped her arms around him in a furious hug.

_Then_ she punched him in the stomach as hard as she could.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for reference of child abuse/neglect
> 
> TW for reference to car accident
> 
> Feel free to talk to me:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://softplaidpajamas.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) (no minors at this location tho pls)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is doing okay! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Just a heads-up, this is my first time writing sign language, so if I include any false descriptions or whatever I apologize and please, please feel free to correct me! Or even just pointers to make it read easier. Also, I already do research before writing certain things, but if any of you have any interesting articles/websites/refs to learn more about sign language, please share in the comments!
> 
> **TWs in end notes**

“You’re awfully quiet,” Hopper stated as he kept his eyes on the road.

Steve continued staring out the window. It appeared as though he hadn’t heard him, but Hopper knew better. Steve’s hearing may have been one of the _many_ things that had been badly damaged in the accident, but Hopper knew he spoke loud enough for the kid to hear; not to mention the hearing aid currently settled in his ear.

No, this was just Steve ignoring him.

There were times Steve would act a bit like a brat, but Hopper figured he had a right to it every now and then. After all, with his relatively new disabilities came frustration. Hopper understood that and he didn't blame him, though that did not mean he didn’t sometimes get irritated.

“Everything okay? Did something happen?” Hopper tried again, but to no avail. Silence was still the only response he got.

Of course, Steve’s silence was common now. Hopper could remember back before the accident when the kid could be pretty loud and yappy; it matched up well with Dustin and the other kids’, really. Since the accident, however, Steve’s newfound “loudness” and “talkativeness” was the flapping of his hands...and that was almost constant. What Steve couldn’t quite get across verbally he made up for in sign language.

That’s not to say he _never_ spoke, it was just a rare occurrence...and typically only emerged as a single word. Sometimes two.

It took a little bit for the doctors to realize that the reason for Steve’s selective mutism wasn’t due to his hearing impairment, but rather the connection between his vocal cords and brain. His voice just couldn’t quite match up or keep up with the words he was trying to put out. Thus, he began learning sign language along with Dustin, Jonathan, and the others.

It wasn’t a skill Hopper ever thought he would take the time to learn, nor did he believe he would sustain enough patience to follow through. He never was big on learning other languages. 

Hopper did remain relatively patient though, which was something others didn’t typically associate with him. If anything, he was known as the perpetually cranky Chief of Police with a drinking problem. But after adopting a kid like Eleven and caring for one like Steve, he had acquired a special kind of patience, and it was something he didn’t share with just anyone and everyone.

No, he reserved it for the special few he held close to his heart.

This newfound patience had come to him amongst episodes of frustration, heartache, and compassion. He had a few slip-ups here and there, of course, but he truly was doing his best. Joyce being there to ground him every so often was certainly something that helped him too.

“Hm?” Hopper noised, sparing a glance before looking back at the road.

Still no answer.

Normally, Steve’s expressive and energetic sign language was a round-the-clock occurrence. The accident may have taken a lot away from him, but his personality and talkativeness remained ever-present. So, when Steve was quiet like this, that either meant he was in a pissy mood or he had gone into a rare-but-not-unexpected catatonic state.

And _those_ were the times Hopper really couldn’t afford to lose his cool. During such episodes he would have to repeatedly remind himself that Steve wasn’t simply ignoring him because he was being a brat. It was more like...he couldn’t find the ability to respond. It was as though a part of his brain would temporarily shut off, only to turn back on at some point.

It took some time to get used to those episodes. Hell, Eleven got the hang of it quicker than anyone.

Eleven would turn on an old western movie and just sit there with him in a strangely content silence, as though he were actually a dutiful movie-watching partner.

Hopper had to admit he was a little freaked out the first time he saw Steve just staring blankly at nothing.

_Hopper's heavy footsteps clunked against the floorboards of the small, shrouded cabin. He gave an exasperated sigh as he walked into the living room, still buttoning up his uniform shirt. He did_ not _want to deal with the Walsh family. This was the second time in three months their kid, Troy, had been caught spray painting Kelly’s Mart. He wanted to tell Callahan to deal with the situation himself because Troy's just a damn kid. But as it turned out, the kid really only listened to him. Or at least, listened to him a_ little more _than the other officers._

_"I got called into work, so you and El are going to Joyce’s for the night,” Hopper grumbled, retrieving his keys from the basket by the front door._

_Hopper didn’t receive a response, and for a moment he wondered if Steve didn’t have his hearing aids in. That was quickly ruled out though when he noticed the beige devices settled in his ears._

_Steve was just sitting on the couch, legs flopped lazily on the floor in front of him like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Every so often the muscles in his left leg and arm would spasm, but that wasn’t necessarily abnormal. What_ was _strange, however, was the odd rotating and flexing of his hand and wrist. It was almost as though he wasn't meaning to do it, but couldn’t quite help it. Like some sort of outside force was making him do it._

_“Hey,” Hopper tried again, a little louder._

_Again, Steve didn’t answer. He just continued staring blankly forward. Eyes not really seeing anything, but also appearing as though they were seeing everything._

_If Hopper was being honest, it was a little eerie._

_“Kid? You okay?” Hopper questioned tentatively._

_Hopper noted the black television screen and the fact that Steve wasn’t wearing his glasses. They were laying neglected on the kitchen table. Hopper thought that maybe he had forgotten them, like he so often did._

_“You forget your glasses?” Hopper asked, picking up the silver, wire-rimmed glasses from the kitchen table._

_Again, no answer. Not even a fraction of an indication that he had heard him._

_It was all so strange that Hopper felt something_ had _to be wrong. But he_ _only made it two charging steps when he felt a gentle hand on his wrist. He looked down to see Eleven suddenly there, as though she had just appeared out of thin air._

_He kind of hated when she did that..._

_Hopper looked at her in puzzlement, but she simply put her index finger to her lips and ever-so-gently pulled down on his sleeve. He got the hint and flopped down on the couch so hard the floorboards below creaked loudly in protest._

_Eleven sat down between the two of them, tucked her legs up crisscross, and clicked the remote at the television. The screen flashed brightly to life before dimming to its usual dull glow. Cowboys appeared on the screen, valiantly riding horses and shooting pistols in some desert landscape._

_“What are we doing?” Hopper spoke lowly to Eleven._

_Eleven actually shushed him that time before stating,_ _“Quiet time."_

_Hopper’s mouth was dumbly hanging open as his eyes flicked from Eleven, to Steve, then to the television screen._

_“Quiet time,” he repeated as a statement more than a question._

_Eleven nodded. She turned a bit to pull the wool plaid blanket off the back of the couch. She laid it across Steve’s lap before pulling the remaining over her own legs._

_The blanket was technically a large comforter, so there was still quite a bit available. Eleven held it up invitingly._

_Hopper had been studying her, but shook his head and blinked a bit before standing, “Uh, no. No, I actually got called in to help deal with a thing so...can this...whatever this is be moved to Joyce’s or...?”_

_“I...don’t know,” Eleven answered honestly, looking over at Steve._

_Hopper walked over and knelt in front of Steve, trying to make some sort of eye contact with him._

_“Hey, kid. I'm taking you two to Joyce’s,” Hopper stated robotically. “Think you can get up for me?”_

_Steve’s eyes flicked to Hopper’s own, and for a second a bit of lucidity appeared to return, only to disappear again._

_Hopper cautiously put his hand on Steve’s knee._

_“Do you need help? Hm?”_

_Still no answer._

_Hopper hated that he could feel the familiar prickle of frustration creeping in. But the kid wasn't freaking_ speaking _so how the hell was he supposed to know what to_ do?

_“How ‘bout I pick you up, would that be good?”_

_No answer._

_Hopper took that as a yes and_ _made the move to scoop Steve up into his arms...only to receive an extremely agitated response in return._

_And needless to say, that night Hopper learned a lot about what_ to do _during Steve's episodes and what_ not _to do._

“Hard.”

Hopper looked over when he heard Steve mumble.

“Harder than usual today?” Hopper questioned.

Steve nodded.

Hopper pursed his lips. Sometimes he couldn’t help but hate himself for the times he was unable to think of something constructive or comforting to say. This was one of those times.

“It’ll get easier as time goes on. Just gotta keep working at it," Hopper settled on, hoping it would be enough.

Steve snorted a laugh and looked out the window again.

“Hey, I’m not joking,” Hopper stated. “It will, okay?”

Steve gave him a slow, pointed look.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hopper muttered.

 _Thanks a lot,_ Steve signed sarcastically.

Hopper looked at him in annoyance.

Because he was well aware he said those same words a lot, but what the hell else was he supposed to say? It was better than nothing. Steve’s brain and skull had been so severely damaged, it was pretty incredible he had even gotten _this_ far already. Shit, he wasn’t a damn motivational speaker-

Before Hopper could vocalize his frustrations, he noticed an amused smile on Steve’s face. His pointed glare had morphed into something softer and less bothered.

Hopper puffed out some air and said, “Don’t be a brat.”

Steve laughed, the sound coming out soft and a little shaky, but it was still a sound that eased Hopper’s tension a bit. It meant that he must be doing something right.

Hopper provided a small smile himself.

That uplifted feeling lingered within the Blazer for the rest of the ride home. It stuck with them even as Hopper got out of the car and went around back to retrieve the wheelchair and crutch from the trunk before helping Steve out of the passenger seat. And it followed even still as he watched Steve’s energetic hand movements as he _talked_ and _talked._

Hopper couldn’t even get a word in, though he also wasn’t really trying. He was just happy that Steve’s bad mood had diminished.

Hopper was smiling lightly as he lifted Steve's wheelchair over the porch step with ease.

Then, the smile fell so quickly it was as though it were never even there.

And the once-pleasant expression morphed into anger.

Because Hopper could hear a different yet familiar voice through the poorly-soundproofed wooden walls.

Steve looked confused as Hopper became bitterly rigid, clutching at the forearm crutch that he had set on his lap. The hand Hopper placed on Steve's chest wasn’t much of an explanation. Steve just furrowed his eyebrows up at him, puzzlement clear in his auburn eyes.

Hopper pushed Steve away from the door and toward the ugly, orange metal glider that sat under the window.

“Wait here,” he ordered, leaving no room for discussion.

 _What the hell?_ Steve questioned, but Hopper just ignored him as he charged through the unlocked front door.

The kids parted away from the large man like he sported a shield. He stomped up to Billy, who was quickly standing from where he had been sitting on the couch.

Billy fucking Hargrove had been sitting on the damn couch. Like he was just making himself at home...when he shouldn’t even _be_ _there_ in the first place.

“Just what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing here?” Hopper hissed out menacingly.

“I’m here to-” Billy started bravely.

“You have a lot of fucking nerve coming here,” Hopper spat as he stepped even closer; he usually tried to keep his swearing to a minimum when Eleven and the other kids were around, but this time he was just too furious to even think about it.

Billy swallowed hard under the police chief's glare. He was so close to him that Billy could smell the coffee and cigarette smoke that lingered on his breath.

Dangerously close.

If Hopper wanted to hit him, punish him, beat him to a pulp, there was nothing standing in his way. Hell, it's not like Jonathan Byers would be able to stop the fucking _oak tree_ of a man.

Billy would take it though. He supposed he would accept it as just another way to settle his debts.

He straightened up a bit and continued looking Hopper right in the eyes.

“I’m here to-”

But again, he was interrupted.

“Y’know, I don’t even want to fucking hear it? There’s a back door and I want you through it in five seconds.”

Billy breathed in and out to calm his building frustration.

"If I could just-"

“Five...”

“I’m not here for-”

“Four...”

“You’re not even letting me-” Billy still tried to explain, irritation edging its way further and further into his voice.

“Three...” Hopper continued counting down, not even blinking as his eyes stayed locked on Billy’s.

Jonathan could sense danger. Both Billy and Hopper were poking the bear at this point...both of them equally being said bear...

And he _really_ didn’t want to have to deal with holes in the wall and broken pieces of glass all over the place.

“I need to-”

"Two..."

"I'm-"

“One-”

“He’s here to apologize,” Jonathan blurted.

Hopper and Billy’s stare-down was finally broken as they whipped their heads in his direction. Eleven, Mike, Max, Lucas, Will, and Dustin had been simultaneously looking from Hopper to Billy as their little spat had been going on, but now their eyes were pointed at Jonathan as well.

So, apparently, he had the floor.

“He’s here to apologize,” Jonathan repeated in a quieter tone of voice.

“Apologize,” Hopper repeated.

Billy actually nodded in Jonathan’s direction as a silent form of gratitude. Jonathan’s gaze darkened a bit at that, because he wasn’t doing it for _him_ for fuck’s sake. He was doing it so his mom wouldn’t have to come home to a broken house.

“Apologize for what exactly?” Hopper asked, tone sounding almost daring.

It was a dare aimed right at Billy...that he better say the right thing or he would find himself flying straight through the living room window.

“Apologize for what?” Billy muttered mockingly before a smirk flicked onto his face. “For undoubtedly breaking Pretty Boy’s face again. That's what."

Wrong answer.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The blue vein in Hopper’s forehead popped out, throbbingly contrasting against his red face.

“That’s not funny,” Dustin spoke up seriously before Hopper could even begin to get his hands on Billy.

“Never said I was a comedian,” Billy replied.

“And besides that, he doesn’t...you can’t apologize because he won’t...” Dustin trailed off and looked off to the side, biting at his bottom lip and shaking his head.

Billy actually waited for him to continue.

“You fucking broke him, dude,” Dustin continued.

“Hey, language,” Hopper scolded, though it went ignored.

“He...you were in fucking jail so you didn’t see how bad it- he...” Dustin trailed off.

Billy’s face fell. He'd known that Steve had to have gotten pretty messed up in the accident, but surely it wasn’t _that_ bad, right? After all, Billy and the two others he had been cruising with were just scratched up. Tommy had a concussion or something...but besides that...

The memory that had haunted Billy’s dreams suddenly flashed through his mind again. Of a completely wrecked BMW flipped upside down on the road.

Ambulances.

Flashing lights.

The expressions of absolute fear and horror on those kids' faces as they biked up to the scene...

Billy closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in and out once more.

He knew. He _knew_ it had been bad.

Surely though... _surely_ if something had been _really_ wrong then Max would have told him. Right?

They had been writing letters back and forth for the first year Billy had been in jail before he dwindled his responses down to nothing, deciding to focus instead on his own detesting thoughts and mundane routine.

Billy’s gaze flicked to Max, and it was clear that she seemed to know what he was thinking.

“I didn’t... I didn’t know how to tell you," she said.

Billy’s eyebrows furrowed and panic began to creep into his brain.

“Well- well what the hell happened, Maxine? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“I would have filled you in eventually if you hadn’t stopped writing back!” Max retorted just as snappy.

“Well then tell me now! Fucking fill me in now! I-is he okay? Is he bedridden? A vegetable? What-”

Billy was visibly panicking as his voice got louder and louder. Max’s mouth was moving wordlessly, trying to find the right words to break through Billy's panic. Not to mention Lucas and Mike were eyeballing her cynically.

She supposed she couldn’t blame them too much...they hadn’t known that she had been in contact with her step brother since the accident.

Mike had a familiar look of peeved betrayal while Lucas just looked offended.

The sound of the doorknob turning alerted everyone in the room to the front door opening.

Steve was standing in the doorway, looking incredibly annoyed.

His hand slipped off the knob, allowing the door to swing the rest of the way open. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe and his legs appeared almost shaking and crooked like a newborn deer, but the agitation was loud and clear in his signage and glare.

_What the fuck, Hop?_

Hopper rolled his eyes, “I told you to stay put.”

“Shit, dude, you just left him on the porch?” Dustin scolded.

Hopper held his hands out in frustrated innocence as Dustin stomped over to Steve and allowed him to use his shoulder as a crutch. Steve had been getting better and better at walking short distances in the house without something or someone as an aid, but he typically felt pretty worn out after his physical therapy appointments.

Also, it sometimes just made the others feel better knowing they were there to catch him if he fell.

They knew that Steve felt rather suffocated sometimes with their hovering, but they couldn’t help it. They figured it better to have him annoyed than hurting himself.

"Billy?” Steve questioned, suddenly noticing the blast-from-the-past just standing there like a frozen idiot.

Steve’s voice was just as Billy remembered it, though quieter and a bit more monotone.

No matter the slight change, however, it was still the familiar voice that would either haunt his mind with the weeping question ‘ _How could you do this to me?’_ or berate him with ‘ _What the fuck were you thinking, Hargrove? You thought you were pretty damn invincible, huh?’_

Billy’s expectations had flown right out the window as soon as his eyes landed on Steve for the first time in over two years.

His former bravery slipped away and now he was just...staring.

Because he hadn’t expected this. He expected maybe some scars here and there, maybe even a limp or something, but not this.

Not this.

Steve, former basketball star of Hawkins High School, looked like he could hardly stand on his own two feet as his hand remained clutched on Dustin’s shoulder. His soft brown eyes seemed to bore right into him from behind the wire-rimmed glasses that sat on his face.

Steve hadn’t had glasses before...

And while Steve’s stare was not menacing or angry, the innocently puzzled look was still like a dagger that shot right through Billy. Past his skin, muscle, bone...defenses...everything.

Billy suddenly felt so very spineless.

 _What’s he doing here?_ Steve asked, looking down at Dustin.

Billy didn’t know a lick of sign language, but he gathered what was said from assumption as well as watching the slightly inert way Steve mouthed the words.

Steve didn’t have a hearing impairment before either...

No, that was yet another thing Billy had caused.

Dustin opened his mouth to answer...

“I’m here to apologize,” Billy announced in an embarrassingly feeble tone of voice that cracked at the last syllable.

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed as Billy continued, “Please, I just...please let me apologize.”

Everyone looked from Billy to Steve about ten times within the eight second silence.

This was it. Steve was either going to accept his apology or he was going to yell at him, curse at him, get Hopper to physically toss him out of the house...

“For what?” Steve murmured in honest confusion.

Billy’s stomach dropped to the floor when he heard those words.

Steve didn’t remember.

Everyone’s eyes turned back to Billy.

Everyone - minus Steve - was looking at him with a kind of saddened, knowing expression. As though they all were in the know while Billy was left in the dark...

And as a matter of fact, they _had_ been aware of this rather important aspect. It was something Max would have filled him in on if Billy had just continued writing to her.

Yet another mistake to add to his ever-growing list.

Steve didn’t remember...

He didn’t even know who did this to him.

Steve didn’t have a single _inkling_ in his mind that Billy was the monster who did this.

Billy suddenly felt so very small.

He would never have guessed that Steve “The Hair” Harrington could make him feel like this when even the toughest guys in jail barely made him flinch. When _Hopper_ hadn't even been able to make him halt or bow down.

Billy Hargrove felt like the smallest, shittiest, most cowardly man on earth.

**.**

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for description of catatonic (depressive) episodes
> 
> TW for some brief mentions/flashbacks to car accident
> 
> Feel free to talk to me:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://softplaidpajamas.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) (no minors at this location tho pls)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for the comments, bookmarks, and kudos. They each mean a lot to me!
> 
> **TWs in end notes**

Billy’s insides felt cold as they tumbled and flopped around in his stomach.

He was frozen. Again.

Stupid Steve Harrington and his stupid fucking soft doe eyes attached to his idiotic, confused face.

If Steve could just have mercy on him and look away...if he could just...look away.

Look away, damn it!

Finally, Steve did look away. He looked down at Dustin.

 _What?_ he asked.

Dustin signed something back that involved a smooth sort of thumbs-down motion. Billy didn’t know what he said, but the look on his face made it clear...

That he wasn’t welcome, nor his attempt at some sort of reconcile.

It made him feel even more vulnerable in a room full of people who absolutely hated his guts.

Then Steve’s stare was back on him, though this time with quite a bit of distaste.

It was a gaze that was once again ceaselessly penetrating his defenses _._

Billy wasn't sure what the kid had said, but whatever it was caused Steve's face to morph into _that._ A look of disgust.

Disgust at him.

Billy came here to apologize for his wrongdoings...to find some sort of relief in this shitty life. Not to feel even more guilty over this whole thing. He didn’t need all of these feelings swarming around his brain and heart right now. He didn’t need them. He didn’t _want them._

Who the hell did Steve think he was making him feel even worse about this than he already did? Who the hell was everyone else to judge him? To make him feel like this?

And more importantly, who the hell was he, himself, to be feeling so angry about all of this?

It wasn’t right, he knew, but that didn’t matter. Since when had his emotions ever played fair?

All too suddenly, Billy was feeling too many eyes on him. Usually he thrived on attention, but this...he didn’t want this.

Why couldn’t they stop looking at him like he was some sort of monster? Like he was a convict who had escaped in order to come back to Hawkins and ruin everyone’s lives? He had served his time. He had learned his lesson, damn it.

This was all supposed to get better after today. This was supposed to appease something in him, but it wasn’t.

If anything, everything had gotten more complicated.

Initially, his plan had seemed so simple. So straight-forward. He expected some bumps here and there, but...but now...

Now he didn’t know what to do.

Except run.

Billy clumsily charged forward, and Jonathan and Hopper made a move as though to block Steve from a hit.

He wasn’t going to attack him, damn it. What would be the point in that?

Billy's shoulder did hit something, but he was too focused on escaping, that he didn’t see what it was. Probably just the Chief or Jonathan attempting to stop him so they could give him more grief. Make him feel even more like shit.

“Billy!” Max called after him as he retreated from the house.

Steve had stumbled as Billy shoved past without another word, and Hopper was quick to catch him.

Steve looked after the retreating figure, feeling more perplexed than ever. Because...what the hell?

Billy Hargrove had just come by to talk to him. To _apologize_ to him.

And apologize for what? The fight that had occurred over three years ago?

Yeah, that whole thing had been pretty fucked up, but, again, why now? A lot had happened since then. Why the hell would Billy feel the need to apologize for that now?

“Steve!”

Steve heard Hopper’s booming voice along with a pat on his chest and he blinked away from the open door that Billy had just charged out of.

Oh, right, he was still in Hopper’s arms, leaning heavily against his solid trunk of a body.

“I said, are you okay?” Hopper said loudly still, overly emphasizing the words.

Steve felt a lick of annoyance.

For goodness’ sake, he was _fine._

It was just a little knock to his body. Nothing to make a fuss over. He'd suffered worse, after all.

But Steve just nodded and straightened up.

**.**

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**.**

**.**

Billy ran.

He ran down the stretch of road he had traveled in on, and he kept going until sweat was pouring from his hairline and down his face.

He ran until his throat was dry and downright burning.

He ran.

He couldn’t think of anything else to do besides run from the problem as fast as he could.

Run from what he had done.

Run from yet another fuck-up.

Finally, he slowed to a stop on the side of the road, leaning over heavily with his hands on his knees.

A car full of dumb high schoolers honked at him and shouted some sort of jeer out the window as they sped past. He wasn’t sure what they said, but he knew he deserved it.

Sweat dripped off his nose and onto the ground. He watched with a strange kind of laser focus as it landed on the asphalt.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drip, after drip, after drip.

At some point he trudged into the woods off to the side and just collapsed on the ground. Dirt, leaves, and pine needles clung to his sticky, sweaty arms.

It was only then that he realized...shit, he’d left his jacket at the Byers’ house...

Billy closed his eyes for a moment and just listened to the sound of his own heaving breaths.

Eventually, he opened his eyes again to stare up at the trees and the bits of bright blue sky that peaked through.

Billy continued to lay there for an unknown amount of time in a strange sort of stupor. He wasn't sure if it was twenty minutes, thirty minutes, three hours...

He just laid there...and wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Billy didn’t show up again that day. Or the next day, or the day after that, or even the day after that.

Max was beside herself with worry. She tried to vocalize her concerns with everyone, trying to make them understand that he was out there somewhere with nowhere else to go...that it wasn't like he could just go home with Neil there, because he would surely kick the crap out of him on sight.

Hopper felt bad for the kid in that regard, but not enough to go out searching for him. He honestly believed that Billy had just skipped town. He certainly wouldn't put it past him.

Mike was still shooting his own snappy remarks at Max, clearly still mad that she had been secretly communicating with her stepbrother despite the damage he had done.

Lucas was still angry as well. He had been holding firm on a silent treatment for days. He and Max were partners for an end-of-school project, and even then he was coldly silent toward her.

Steve still had the most minuscule amount of knowledge on the subject. He believed that all the hostility was because of Billy beating him up forever ago as well as his violence toward Lucas and Max.

Whenever he tried to get Mike to lay off a bit, he would reply, “You just don’t understand, Steve.”

And Dustin would bite his lip at that.

Because it was so disturbingly ironic.

It was Saturday, and nearly everyone was settled in the Byers’ house for a routine sleepover.

A deep darkness shrouded the house, which was typical for night time in the outskirts of Hawkins. It developed gradually and fell hard, the shadows appearing as though they were oozing from the deep surrounding woods.

Joyce heard rain starting to patter on the roof as she prepared dinner.

After Billy had run from the house a few days prior, Jonathan reluctantly agreed to drive Max around so she could search for him. Though, his reluctance diminished with each passing day, being replaced instead by pity.

Not pity for Billy, but for Max.

Tonight was no different, except for the fact that Hopper decided to tag along as well.

Both of them pretty much despised Billy, but Jonathan could be too sweet for his own good, while Hopper...she was fairly certain Hopper just wanted to make sure Billy didn’t hurt either of them in some way. She knew he would kick himself a thousand times if Billy hurt another member of their little family.

Joyce smiled at the sudden ruckus she heard erupt from the living room.

The boys were busy creating character sheets for a new Dungeons & Dragons campaign, and Joyce knew all too well how rambunctious they could get.

She honestly didn’t understand the appeal of the game, but she would ask Will about it anyway simply for the sake of hearing him talk excitedly about it.

She would ask questions and try to keep up with what each campaign brought. And every time, she found it truly amazing how in-depth the fabricated adventures were.

Not only were Will and the other kids too smart for their own good, but they were also so very creative. It always made her feel a sense of contentment, because even after all of the horrors they had seen and experienced, they could still do this. They could still find joy in the playful building of a world and characters all their own.

It was admirable, really.

Joyce stirred the Swedish meatballs and noodles as they simmered within the pot. She knew she wasn’t the best cook. Hell, she had just burnt the chocolate chip cookies she'd made for the kids because she got distracted by a magazine for a little too long.

Yet, this meal was a favorite, and she knew Hopper could use a nice meal after stressing about Billy all week.

She knew he was just worried about Steve, though she honestly wasn’t sure what he thought Billy was going to do to him. From the sounds of it, the guy hadn’t come back to Hawkins for a fight.

Then again, Joyce had never actually met Billy Hargrove, so she figured she had no business speaking on it.

Another exclamation sounded, Dustin's recognizable lisp not diminishing in the slightest with the volume. His exclamation received an even louder response from the other boys.

Whatever was happening, they deemed it important enough to get ridiculously loud. Joyce didn’t mind though. She liked having all "her kids” under one roof, noisiness and all.

After Will was rescued from the Upside Down, gatherings at her house like this had become a common occurrence every Friday through Sunday. It became even more of a thing once Eleven was allowed to roam a bit more freely after closing the Gate.

And then it became a constant following Steve's accident.

“The DM is _so_ not always right! You’re full of shit!” Dustin exclaimed.

“Yes he is! He’s the creator so, therefor, he’s always right!” Mike argued.

“He has a point,” Will said calmly.

“No, no, no...don’t you remember that time you made a Mimic out of my pet hawk I acquired at like...Point G? In that town? He attacked us at Point Z just as a cheap plot twist! That made no sense. That was just you being an asshole!”

“Okay, that doesn’t count. That was when we were still learning-”

“It definitely counts.”

“No it doesn’t.... Shut _up, Steve,_ it does _not_ count! You don’t even know the rules!” Mike snapped.

Eleven nibbled on a large, slightly burnt cookie as she read a book with an illustrated girl holding an orange on the cover.

She never could get into the whole Dungeons & Dragons thing, no matter how hard Mike tried. She was a little too...rigid and straight-forward for such a game that called for creative flow and role-play. So, needless to say, she preferred being on the sidelines.

Steve sat beside Eleven on the floor scribbling in a rather large sketchbook.

His fingertips were black with charcoal, and smudges littered the side of his face where he would swipe hair away from his eyes.

Steve had spent a long time not understanding the appeal of art. When he was in school he would doodle in the corners of his notes when he was supposed to be paying attention in class, but that was pretty much it. It wasn’t until Will brought a coloring book to his hospital room that he discovered there was something fulfilling and oddly therapeutic about it.

There were a lot of things that Steve held onto from his hospital stay. Things he found comfort in.

For instance, the dark magenta sweatshirt he was currently wearing. It was an old sweatshirt of Joyce’s that had been sitting in the back of the closet for years because it was much too big for her. Her ex-husband, Lonnie, had bought it for her as a birthday gift, which honestly showed how little he cared considering it was three times her size.

It was even too big on Steve, going a little past mid-thigh, but he wore it anyway.

And even after multiple washes, it was still as soft as the first day he put it on thanks to Jonathan’s rudimentary fabric softener consisting of vinegar and fruit peels.

A loud clap of thunder vibrated the walls just as the front door swung open.

A distressed Max entered the house, followed by Hopper and Jonathan.

“He’s out there somewhere and you guys are just- just giving up,” Max bit out as she removed her yellow raincoat.

“Kid, it’s late and raining-”

“Exactly!” she snapped. “It’s raining and it’s cold and-”

“It’s sixty-five degrees, that’s not cold,” Hopper interrupted in annoyance.

“We’re from California. To us, that’s cold,” Max retorted, causing Hopper to sigh and pinch the skin between his eyebrows. “You’re a cop... aren’t you supposed to not include personal feelings in your work? He's missing, and you just...you just don’t care!”

"Y’know what else? He's an adult. It's not like he’s some lost little kid out there. He’ll be fine,” Hopper said, voice getting louder and sterner.

"Besides that, who even cares?” Mike spoke up, having gone back to his Dungeon Master notes.

 _Mike..._ Steve warned, giving him a pointed look.

“What? It’s true. It’s not like he’s one of the Party,” Mike replied.

The sign that they had made up for their “Party” involved crossing fingers and arms over the chest. It was a combination of the word “love” and “best friend,” and Mike signed it with the same amount of passion every time.

Because that’s just how Mike was. He was quite possibly the snottiest kid Steve had ever met, but he loved his friends deeply and fiercely. He supposed he couldn’t fault him for that.

“I care, Mike!” Max shouted. “And I’m sick of you treating me like shit just because you hate Billy!”

”Language...” Hopper warned tiredly.

”He’s my brother, _of course_ I'm going to want to find him!” Max continued yelling.

Mike opened his mouth to retort, but Max’s attention suddenly went to Steve instead.

 _I’m sure he’ll be fine. It is Billy, after all,_ he said.

Dustin started cackling, and everyone looked at him in confusion. Hopper, however, rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“Do I even want to know what that sign means for Billy?” Max asked.

“No, no you don’t,” Hopper chimed in. “Look, we’ll continue looking tomorrow. But tonight, we’re just going to eat dinner like the happy little family we are. No ifs or buts. Okay?”

“But-”

“No buts!” he stated firmly.

Max angrily shuffled on her feet a bit before saying, “Fine.”

Hopper cynically eyeballed her for a few seconds.

“Alright,” he said before pointing at Steve. “And you, stop teaching Dustin that crap.”

Steve just shrugged and smiled up at him innocently.

When Hopper walked away, Max stomped over to sit down on Steve’s other side, not even caring that she got some left over rain water on his drawing. He frowned and looked pointedly at her.

“Sorry,” she said, though there was no remorse at all in her tone.

Steve rolled his eyes and looked back down at his sketch pad.

“So, what was that?” Max asked, trying to mimic what she had seen Steve sign.

She knew the sign for “water,” but after that she was lost.

Steve stretched his neck a bit to look past her, making sure Hopper wasn’t on his way back in. He then placed his sketch pad on the floor and did the sign again: tapping his chin before swiftly inserting his right index finger into his closed left fist, then splaying all fingers on his right hand in a spritzing motion.

Max repeated it a couple of times to get the hang of it.

Dustin started laughing again and Will had a knowing grin on his face, clearly trying not to laugh himself. Lucas, Mike, and Eleven just looked confused.

“Is anyone going to explain, or...?” Lucas asked.

Steve just shrugged and repeated his sign for Billy again before pushing his glasses up his nose and going back to drawing.

Dustin continued laughing while Will leaned over and whispered to Mike, who sputtered out a laugh himself before telephoning to Lucas.

Max rolled her eyes and huffed in annoyance as Lucas started laughing too.

Eleven still looked confused, so Dustin leaned over and whispered in her ear as well.

“Douchenozzle?” she questioned.

With that, everyone collapsed into a heap of laughter, even Max.

Hopper walked back into the room with a can of cheap beer in his hand, Joyce and Jonathan following close on his heels.

”What’s so funny?” Joyce asked with a smile of amusement.

”Douchenozzle,” Eleven repeated innocently.

Everyone laughed harder.

“Harrington!” Hopper snapped, though it went ignored as Steve continued laughing.

Eleven still looked incredibly confused, but she was smiling.

Joyce pressed a hand to her mouth to try and stifle her own chuckling as Jonathan snorted out a laugh himself.

“It’s not funny!” Hopper snapped.

His scolding was once again ignored as the room fell even further into their fit of mirth.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Billy’s body gave a violent tremble that seemed to match up with the rumble of thunder overhead. The rain fell down on the makeshift roof and blue tarp.

He felt pretty damn lucky to have stumbled across the little clubhouse when he did, even if he had been walking in the cold rain for fifteen minutes prior.

He had almost immediately collapsed on a layering of musty-smelling blankets on the far side of the small space. There were also some old throw pillows and a rather mangy stuffed animal.

And while Billy had never been afraid of the dark, he was truly grateful for the kerosene lamp that sat on an old plastic crate. He struck a match and lit it, keeping the same match going so he could light his cigarette.

The cigarette was a little damp and bent, but the end glowed orange just the same.

Billy laid back on the blankets and pillows, closed his eyes, and inhaled deep.

There was a faint crunching outside through the falling rain, but it didn’t sound like a person so he didn’t pay much mind. If it was a raccoon or possum or something, he could chase it off no problem.

Billy opened his eyes and exhaled, the remnants of smoke shooting out toward the clubhouse ceiling.

His eyes fell upon the drawings that littered the walls.

They were pictures of beasts, warlocks, and elves as well as other fantasy characters.

Billy softly snorted.

A nerd must hang out in here.

He finished his cigarette and closed his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep despite his cold, wet skin and the deep rumble of hunger in his stomach.

_“-_ _ou_ _fucking did this, you don’t get to close your eyes!”_

_Billy hadn’t even realized he had. When did he close his eyes?_

_And who was shouting at him anyway?_

_It felt like some sort of invisible force was causing his eyes to open, but when they did, his gaze locked on the wrecked BMW a short distance away. Even through the onslaught of bright flashing lights, he could tell whose car it was._

_A couple of ambulances had taken away Tommy and the other guy...fuck, he forgot his name. He was annoying, that’s all he knew..._

_Through it all he could see a familiar group of kids across the street, staring in horror at the scene before them._

_“Mike, Mike! It’s okay. It’ll be okay, kid.”_

_Billy knew that was Chief Hopper, even though it was a little hard to decipher one cop from the next amidst the disorienting lights and his inebriated brain._

_The lights really were too bright. Why were they so obnoxiously bright? They were making his head spin._

_“You fucker!”_

_Wheeler. That was that Wheeler kid yelling at him again. Mike was his name...right._

_He could see Little Byers pulling Wheeler into a hug._

_Tears were falling down Curly Qs face...whatever his name was. All he knew was he had a lisp and he followed Harrington around like a puppy dog._

_His sister’s boyfriend...or whatever he was to her...he was also trying to comfort the Wheeler kid...who appeared to still be having a full-blown meltdown._

_If Billy wasn’t drunk and high off his ass, he would actually appreciate the fact that Max was home sick that night rather than there to witness any of this._

_“Hop, we need you over here now! Oh, shit-” came another voice._

_“Callahan, you get over here and make sure the kids stay back,” Chief Hopper ordered authoritatively._

_Billy blinked slowly._

_Why the hell were a bunch of kids at an accident scene anyway? Where were their parents?_

_When he opened his eyes again, there was a pair of legs in front of him._

_“Sir, I need to check you for a concussion... sir...”_

_But Billy was standing up off the curb, completely ignoring the paramedic even as she tried to stop him. He jerked his arm from her grasp and continued walking until a couple of officers noticed and halted him._

_“Sir, you need to step back now...”_

_Billy tried to see who was in the_ _car._ _He needed to know._

 _Well, he knew...but he needed to...needed to_ really _know._

 _He hadn’t seen the proof yet...not really._

_Hopper was in the way, crouching in front of the driver’s side window._

_Billy continued walking forward, completely ignoring the officer’s hands on his arms. It was like he was a moving force that couldn’t be stopped. Not until he could see what had happened._

_What he had caused._

_Had he really caused this?_

_He needed to see._

_Suddenly he was in a bright, fluorescent hallway. The mangled car was gone, and so were the flashing lights._

_Hopper appeared in his face, speaking so angrily that spit was flying from his mouth._

_“You stay the hell back, Hargrove. You stay the hell back!”_

_He actually had tears in his eyes. He never thought he would witness the big guy so torn up about something._

_Billy blinked._

_He could feel himself being pulled backwards, away from the Chief’s angry, pained gaze... away from the tear-stained faces of the kids..._

_“YOU BASTARD!” came Mike’s disembodied voice as Billy’s surroundings completely disappeared._

_“BASTARD!”_

_“Bastard...”_

_“Bas... -lly...”_

_”B...-lly...“_

"Billy...”

Billy took a sharp intake of breath as he awoke.

He opened his eyes and blearily looked around.

This wasn’t his jail cell, nor the crummy old truck he’d been sleeping in at the compound yard. Where the hell was he? 

He jumped in surprise as Jonathan Byers’ face filled his vision.

“Billy, hey...you awake?”

Billy furrowed his eyebrows and leaned up on his elbows.

“Byers?” he questioned, still disoriented.

“Yeah.”

“The hell you doing out here?”

“This is my little brother’s club house...”

Billy scoffed and laid back down.

“No shit?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said again. “Didn’t you see the sign?”

“No?”

Jonathan sighed, “Whatever, you’re coming with me, okay? Come on.” 

“Why?”

“Because Max has been worried sick about you and I told her I would look for you.”

Billy smirked and closed his eyes again.

“Well, tell her I’m fine.”

“You sure look like it,” Jonathan replied sarcastically.

“Look, I’ll get out of you and your brother’s little play house, alright? I just needed a place to crash,” Billy said.

“Where have you been sleeping?”

“Do you care?”

“No.”

“Alright then.”

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds before Jonathan grabbed his arm and started to pull him up, “Come on-”

“Don’t fucking touch me, Byers,” Billy snapped, jerking out of his grasp.

Jonathan jumped at the tone, but didn’t back down. He refused to leave. Not after he woke up to go to the bathroom only to hear Max trying to stifle her crying in the kitchen.

Not after he told her he would bring her stepbrother back to the house if he found him.

Jonathan didn’t like Billy one bit, but he cared about Max and hated seeing her so worried and upset. Especially considering how she was normally such a tough kid. It was troubling to witness her with tears streaking down her cheeks.

Her feelings had definitely been pushed to the backburner when everything went down. Everyone was so preoccupied with worrying about Steve that they all just sort of...forgot. Forgot that Max was undoubtedly troubled by the fact her own stepbrother had caused the accident. And that he was definitely going to jail.

Even Lucas had neglected to ask her how she was doing...at least not until much, much later.

“Come on, we’re going back to my house,” Jonathan said, starting to move out of the clubhouse.

“Yeah, not interested,” Billy said.

Jonathan was becoming more frustrated. It was wet and he was tired, so why couldn’t he just cooperate?

“I’m clearly not welcome there, so...”

“No, you’re not.”

“Mmm, Byers, you really know how to sweet-talk a guy,” Billy remarked with a sly grin.

“But I told Max I would bring you back if I found you, and that’s exactly what I'm going to do.”

Billy’s annoying grin faded and he chewed a bit on the inside of his lip. Then he sighed in defeat.

“Fine, you win,” he said.

Jonathan just nodded and backed out of the clubhouse.

“Remember to blow out that lantern,” he reminded once he was outside.

“Yeah, yeah...” Billy said dismissively from within.

By the time Jonathan and Billy got back to the house, the rain had stopped. Billy vaguely wondered what time it was. A morning glow had yet to appear in the sky, so it couldn’t have been too far past midnight and into the new day.

Jonathan unlocked the front door and slid into the house as quietly as he could.

Billy wanted to laugh because, for fucks sake, if Byers’ were a cartoon, he’d be tiptoeing.

And if Billy wasn’t trying to make up for past shit he had done, he would stomp in like he owned the place just for the sake of waking everyone up.

But he didn’t.

After all, he had to start somewhere, right?

Billy immediately removed his dirty, heavy boots and left them at the door so his footsteps would be quieter.

As he followed Jonathan down the narrow hallway, Billy looked into the living room area, and his breath actually hitched in his throat when he saw the same group of kids asleep on the floor. They were peacefully curled up in their sleeping bags, but he knew in the morning their faces would once again hold anger as they glared at him.

Hopper was asleep in the recliner, a couple cans of beer and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn on the floor beside him.

Shit, so he would have to deal with him in the morning as well.

Billy continued following Jonathan down the hall until they got to the kitchen. There was a dim light above the stove that settled a soft glow on the room. It was enough light to see that Max was sleeping at the table, as well as...

Billy’s insides lurched when he locked eyes with the other person sitting at the table.

It was that girl...the one from earlier that talked sort of funny and quiet...

She was just...staring at him. What the hell was wrong with her? It was freaking him out.

Jonathan didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by her owlish stare though. He just put his finger to his lips before giving her a reassuring smile and saying something in sign language.

She nodded.

Jonathan gestured for Billy to stay put while he disappeared into a bedroom. He was only gone for a few seconds, but it felt like forever under the gaze of the weird girl. It wasn’t anything menacing...but it was still strange and a little unsettling.

The corners of her mouth flicked up in...was that a smile? It was something, but she looked down at Max the next second.

Jonathan appeared again, folded clothes and towels in his hands. He pointed Billy in the direction of the bathroom.

Billy walked into the small bathroom and Jonathan followed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Billy had to bite back a smart ass remark along the lines of, “You really wanted me alone this bad, Byers? Sorry, not interested.”

“Go ahead and shower because...well, you need it...” Jonathan muttered.

Billy scoffed.

“Here’s some clothes that should fit,” Jonathan continued, placing the stack of clothes and towels on the back of the toilet. “I'll be in the kitchen when you’re done, then I'll show you where you’ll be sleeping, alright?”

His tone wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t kind either. It was a no-nonsense tone that meant: “Don’t you dare run after this. I went out and found your sorry ass, so you’re going to stay here even though I hate your guts.”

Billy nodded, biting back another snide remark.

Because...he had to start somewhere, right? 

Billy shuddered as the water turned from cold to hot. It felt amazing.

The showers in jail were warm enough, but each individual was only allowed five minutes before they were booted.

He felt the grime of the previous few days wash off his body. The body odor stink was replaced by the smell of soap and shampoo.

He was sure he had never smelled better shampoo in his life. It smelled amazing compared to the bar of soap he was provided in jail that had been so bland.

He completely lathered his hair in conditioner. It was going to feel amazing to be able to run his fingers through his hair without a knot getting in the way every damn time.

Billy had to practically force himself from the soothing heat.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and went over to the mirror, swiping his hand across a few times to clear some of the condensation. What he saw was more than a little shocking.

He looked like complete shit.

He had dark bags under his eyes and face scruff that needed to be tamed real quick or else he risked looking homeless. 

Well, technically he _was_ homeless, but that didn’t mean he had to look the part.

No doubt the hair on his head looked like a tumbleweed before the shower.

Billy was happy he didn’t have to see that. That way he could at least pretend he didn’t look that horrible when Byers found him.

He pulled on the pair of sweatpants Jonathan had given him. They were a little too short but not too bad. At least they were dry and at least they were clean. The t-shirt on the other hand...that was a different story.

It was a soft yellow and it had bold neon colors and a cartoon surfing alligator.

It was a little too tight on his arms and it rode up a bit on the small gut he’d acquired while locked away.

He looked ridiculous.

Billy sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  
  


“Finally,” Jonathan whispered in exasperation as Billy emerged from the bathroom.

Billy really didn’t think he had taken that long, but he took note that Max and the weird girl were gone. He figured Jonathan had sent them to bed.

For that, he was grateful. He did not feel like dealing with Max at the moment.

Billy followed Jonathan into the bedroom. There were two single beds pushed together, but one of them was already occupied.

Steve was facing the door, mouth slightly open as he slept. His body gave a quick jerk, and Billy feared he was waking up, but his face remained lax and peaceful.

Jonathan looked from Billy to Steve with an unreadable expression.

He then nodded at a spot on the floor where an ugly, olive-colored sleeping bag lay partially unzipped.

“Can you shut the door?” Jonathan stated more than asked.

Billy did as he was told before looking at Steve once more, who again gave a strange spasm-like jerk.

”He does that,” Jonathan said.

Billy wasn’t sure if he was saying that to simply fill the silence or what, and he didn’t know how to respond.

“Well, goodnight,” Jonathan said awkwardly before crawling into the bed next to Steve’s.

Billy took that as his cue to crawl into the sleeping bag. He had been hoping for a bed, but he figured this was better than some broken down old truck or a clubhouse in the woods. He was just eager to sleep.

Because sleep was where he could escape from everything...so long as the nightmares didn’t find him.

Billy closed his eyes and let out a long, relaxing breath, only to open them again when Steve made a soft, unintelligible noise in his sleep.

Billy suddenly felt uncomfortably awake.

Just a few days ago, Billy could hardly even talk to Steve, and now he was sleeping in the same room as him not even three feet away.

He watched as Steve breathed, steady and deep in sleep.

And once more, the thought that he needed to make it up to him returned. Though, he knew it would take more than a simple apology.

Steve may not remember what Billy had done, but he was going to make it up to him somehow.

Somehow, someway, Billy was going to make things right.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of child abuse
> 
> TW for flashback to car accident
> 
> Feel free to talk to me:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://softplaidpajamas.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) (no minors at this location tho pls)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> **TWs in end notes**

Steve gasped awake, squinting as the morning sun hit his eyes. The silhouettes and shadows of the trees were lazily dancing with the lingering wind from the storm the night before.

Steve stretched his arms over his head, letting out an involuntary sleepy groan, when an obnoxious snort sounded to his right. It was loud enough to just break through his shitty hearing.

Steve paused, eyes widening a bit.

The hell was that?

He turned over and flung his arm out to retrieve his glasses from the bedside table...only to freeze at the sight of someone else in the room...right next to his bed. That...that was a person, right?

His vision might have been blurry at the moment, but there was no mistaking the human-shaped lump on the floor.

What the hell?

Steve squinted, trying to make out the figure even as he blearily fumbled with unfolding his glasses and putting them on his face.

What the _hell_?

Billy fucking Hargrove was asleep in a sleeping bag...right next to his bed...

Steve looked around the room a bit in confusion, as though the answer was laying around somewhere, before grabbing his hearing aids and crutch. He kept an eye on Billy as he slipped the beige devices in his ears and the crutch onto his arm.

Billy didn’t stir. He didn’t show even the slightest indication that he was at all disturbed.

Even as Steve struggled around the prone body with his pesky, clumsy steps in the already crowded room, the guy did nothing but let out another loud snore.

Steve didn’t know why the hell Billy was there, but he did not want to be consciously present in the room when he woke up.

Because that would be just plain awkward.

“Good morning, sweetie,” Joyce said as Steve hobbled his way into the kitchen.

Joyce was sitting at the kitchen table looking over some photographs Jonathan had recently developed.

It was a good thing that the place Jonathan was working at had their own personal darkroom, because he liked developing images himself. It made them feel all the more personal and special. He even enjoyed the sharp chemical smell of the developer and fixer, which was a little odd; the first time Will tagged along with him to see the process for himself, his nose had immediately scrunched up and he asked how Jonathan could stand it for hours at a time.

He'd chuckled a bit, but honestly couldn’t explain how and why.

Jonathan was in the middle of fixing a large breakfast for everyone, but soon as he noticed Steve, he immediately dropped what he was doing.

Steve held up his free hand and shook his head, making a small protesting noise in his throat.

Because he could do this _by himself_ , damn it. He just...needed a minute, okay?

Jonathan hesitated, debating on ignoring Steve’s unspoken request and helping anyway. But he ended up nodding and turning back to the pancake mix he had been stirring, though still keeping a watchful eye over his shoulder. He couldn’t help it. It was habit at this point.

Steve continued shambling toward the table, and as soon as he sat down, he removed the crutch from his arm and propped it against the table. He then let out a sigh and turned to Jonathan.

 _Billy Hargrove is in our room,_ he stated simply.

Jonathan snorted a laugh. "Yeah, I found him last night.”

_You found him?_

“Yeah, I kinda...told Max I would go back out and search for him again,” Jonathan said, feeling his mom’s pointed gaze. "She was...really upset."

Steve scoffed a bit. _Softie._

“Oh yeah, real rich coming from you, Steve,” Jonathan retorted as he poured a rather generous amount of milk into the yellow mixing bowl.

Steve made a noise at that while Joyce smiled and went back to sifting through the photographs.

_Where was he?_

“Castle Byers."

Steve raised his eyebrows and Jonathan just nodded before turning back around to continue stirring.

There was a moment of silence before Steve started to get up to get a cup of coffee. Joyce stopped him though.

“I’m refilling my cup anyway,” she said. “Sugar and cream?”

Steve nodded, _Thanks._

Joyce just smiled at him and ruffled his hair, which was still unkempt and rowdy from sleep. He offered a smile of his own.

Steve used to hate when people messed with his hair, but whenever Joyce did small actions like that, it wrapped his heart in warmth. It was the kind of motherly touch he never quite got to experience, so whenever it happened now it was a welcome interaction.

Steve’s glasses had been knocked down his nose a little and he scooted them up. Then he furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head at one of the photographs across the table. It was on top of the stack, and he thought he recognized himself in the image, but he couldn’t quite tell what was going on since it was upside down. He reached forward to grab it, but stopped.

”J-Jon,” he grunted with a wince.

Jonathan turned and looked at him, then nodded his permission.

He appreciated that Steve asked first. It didn’t bother him if his friends and family looked at his photographs. In fact, he _wanted_ to share them with those he loved. And even though he acted bashful about it, he really enjoyed receiving their compliments. It did, however, bother him when people looked at his images without asking first. It was a weird personal thing that even he himself didn’t fully understand.

The first time Jonathan acted weird about Steve looking at his pictures, it was about a month before the accident occurred. Jonathan had tried to hide his discomfort at first, but somehow Steve caught on. He had become visibly troubled, believing that Jonathan was recalling the time he broke his camera in the high school parking lot.

Jonathan had been quick to tell him that wasn't the case, saying that he had forgiven him a long time ago. He was over it.

Regardless of Jonathan's reassurances though, Steve still found himself feeling bad at times. Especially when he would think back on how much Jonathan had helped him out since the accident. Whether it was helping him bathe, assisting him in eating a meal, or reassuring him after a seizure...he had done it without complaint or judgement, and Steve was incredibly grateful.

Jonathan had been a major factor in his recovery, and in turn had become one of his best friends.

The picture was of Steve and Will sitting on Jonathan’s bed, smiling and wearing large headphones.

The volume had to be pretty loud in order for Steve to hear it without the aids, so whenever they listened to music, Jonathan and Will would have to put thin socks between their ears and the headphones. They didn’t mind at all though, because seeing the smile that lit up their friend’s face was worth it.

Because Steve wasn’t able to listen to music like he used to.

He used to be able to drive around aimlessly with the radio blaring from the speakers; the wind blowing past the open windows, into the car, and through his hair.

That wasn’t the case anymore, so Jonathan and Will took it upon themselves to sit and listen to music with him...showing him what was on the top charts as well as hidden, less-popular gems.

 _I like it,_ Steve said with one hand, the photograph in the other.

Jonathan smiled in appreciation.

The sound of sluggish socked feet in the hallway could be heard, and it wasn't long before Will entered the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"Good morning, sleepyhead,” Jonathan said.

“Good morning,” Will muttered as he sat across from Steve.

"Hey, sweetie," Joyce said as she put a full mug of coffee in front of Steve and plopped a straw inside. He gave her a smile of gratitude, which she returned, accompanied by a loving pat on the shoulder.

"'Morning, mom," Will said sleepily, before giving a half-hearted grumble as Joyce kissed the top of his head.

“How’d you sleep?” she asked, sitting back down in her chair.

Will let out a puff of air that was a mix between a laugh and a scoff. “Mike wouldn’t stop snoring.”

 _Really? I didn’t hear him,_ Steve said.

Will gave him a pointed look. “Very funny.”

Steve just gave him a shit-eating grin in response.

"I was even awake by the time Jonathan got back from his nightly escapades,” Will yawned.

Jonathan turned around in surprise. “I thought I was being quiet."

Will just smiled good-naturedly. “So where’d you find him?”

“Castle Byers."

Will looked surprised at that.

 _Filled the whole place with his Hargrove Stink,_ Steve said and Will giggled a bit, partly at his sign for Billy and partly at the sentence itself.

Steve offered a soft smile in response before movement off to the side caught his attention.

 _Speak of the devil,_ he said as Billy trudged into the kitchen, looking like he hadn't slept a wink.

Jonathan and Steve knew for a fact that wasn’t the case. Especially Jonathan, who had been hearing his snores the entire night and battling with the urge to throw a pillow at him every single time a snort woke him up.

Steve chuckled past the straw in his mouth, his coffee bubbling slightly over the rim of the mug.

 _Nice outfit,_ Steve said, looking up and down at the yellow crocodile t-shirt that was too small on his frame.

Billy furrowed his eyebrows.

Again, he knew absolutely no sign language whatsoever. But if Will’s giggling was any indication, he knew that whatever Steve had said was some sort of jab.

Billy rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“Good morning. I’m- I’m Joyce,” Joyce greeted politely, standing up and holding out her hand for him to shake.

”Billy," he responded in as friendly a tone as he could muster, though feeling rather awkward and stupid...because of course she knew who he was.

He was the guy that almost killed Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington, who was living under her roof.

Steve Harrington, who was sitting in her kitchen at that very moment, looking at him with a stupid smirk on his face.

”How’d you sleep?” Joyce asked.

“Uh, great. Real good,” Billy answered awkwardly. “Thanks.”

She shuffled on her feet a bit before jabbing her thumb over her shoulder. “We have some coffee here if you’d like. And there’s milk and orange juice in the fridge...we even have some bags of tea I think-”

“Yeah, I’ll take some coffee, thanks,” Billy answered.

Joyce nodded and offered a small, forced smile before grabbing a mug from the cabinet and handing it to him. He accepted it and spared a glance at Jonathan as he walked across the kitchen to the coffee maker.

Jonathan gave a slight glare with a fair bit less hatred than before, but Billy still had zero doubt that his feelings were the same.

Billy poured his coffee and took a sip. He had to fight the gratified moan that almost passed his lips, because it tasted _so_ much better than the burnt-flavored crap they got in jail.

Billy was still savoring his coffee-fueled bliss when he turned around and was met with a new debacle.

Where the hell was he supposed to sit? Where the hell _should_ he sit?

Ms. Byers seemed to be the only one who didn’t want to kill him. Then again, it’s not like Little Byers was giving off too hostile of vibes. So, he supposed he could just...

Joyce and Will were staring at him with confusion and unease.

Shit, how long had he been standing there staring at the table like an idiot?

He awkwardly sat in the chair next to Steve, who turned his head to look at him.

Damn it, why did Harrington have to stare so damn much? Didn't his rich mommy and daddy teach him that staring was rude, or whatever?

 _How’s the hangover, asshole,_ Steve asked.

Billy furrowed his eyebrows and looked at him in confusion.

“He asked how your hangover is,” Will said sheepishly.

Billy’s eyes were locked on Will after the explanation, and the kid fidgeted a bit in his seat.

He wasn’t trying to stare the damn kid down, he was actually thankful that he was willing to translate for him. He was just confused because, what the hell? He hadn’t had a drink in years. Not since...

Oh.

So, _that’s_ what the Henderson kid had told Steve that day.

The other day, before Billy had run out of the house like a damn loser, Dustin had signed some sort of smooth thumbs-down motion.

_He’s a drunk,_ Dustin had said.

That damn brat...

“I’m not hungover,” Billy said, trying to keep his voice as level as possible.

Steve raised his eyebrows and made an “if you say so” noise in his throat.

Billy clenched his jaw tighter and his nostrils flared a bit.

Joyce had been pretending to not pay attention, but at the hint of tension she leaped in, “Jonathan is making breakfast. I hope you like pancakes, eggs, and bacon.”

“He makes the best pancakes. He adds a secret ingredient to the mix and we always try to guess what it is,” Will said with a small smile.

Billy wasn't sure why Little Byers thought he cared about that. He figured they were just trying to wade through the troubling awkwardness though, and he couldn't help but appreciate the effort. It would have simply been too much to just sit there in the silence.

This presented a new dilemma though...

Talking back. Reciprocating in the conversation like a normal damn human might.

Billy didn’t know what to say to these people. He hadn’t the slightest clue.

“Uh,” Billy grunted. “Yeah. Yeah, love all that...uh, that stuff.”

Jonathan gave a small snort as he began cooking the proclaimed "best" pancakes.

“Good,” Joyce said with a tight smile.

There was suddenly a bunch of rapid babbling coming from the living room.

"Ow, Dustin!" Mike snapped. "That was my _nose!"_

"Well who asked you to sleep with your face by my damn feet, Mike?" Dustin retorted. "It's not my fault you flip all over the place when you sleep!"

Billy actually felt his stomach sink. This morning was already difficult and just plain fucking _weird_. Now, he was about to experience a whole new onslaught of insults and comments from the snot-nosed brats.

“Ugh, what the hell is _he_ doing here?” Mike asked in disgust as soon as he walked into the kitchen.

His dark hair was a wild mess on his head and he was wearing pajama pants and a Thundercats t-shirt. Yet, the childish garb did little to diminish the intense glare he was shooting Billy's way.

Seriously, for someone so young, his glare could cut down even the biggest, toughest man. And even though Billy knew he deserved it, he couldn't help a riposte.

“Ah, don't pretend, Wheeler. You know you missed me."

Mike rolled his eyes and sat between Will and Joyce.

“Seriously, what is he doing here?” he turned on Will as if he had something to do with it. Joyce put a calming hand on his back, though it clearly wasn’t doing anything.

“Wanted to come back and join the party,” Billy said in a clear taunt. “That too much to ask?"

"Yes. It is," Mike stated.

“Oh shit,” Dustin said as he entered the kitchen, followed closely by Lucas, who looked at Billy like he was some sort of giant cockroach.

“Uh, hi?” Lucas said.

Billy lifted his mug in a mocking salutation.

“Billy!” Max exclaimed before running over and looking him up and down. She took in his unruly facial hair and circles under his eyes. "You look like shit. Are you sick?"

Billy scoffed. "Nice to see you too, Maxine."

She opened her mouth again to start pummeling him with questions but he stopped her.

“Please, Max, no questions yet. I have a headache,” Billy said; Dustin signed that same thing to Steve that he’d seen him do the other day...that damn thumbs-down motion thing. “And, no, Henderson, I’m not hungover. Haven’t had a drink in over two years.”

Dustin seemed caught off guard that he had figured it out, and Billy had a short moment of satisfaction over that before Mike chimed in.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?” he asked smartly.

Billy’s nostrils flared as a blend of humiliation, anger, and anxiety clawed its way up his throat.

Steve’s eyes were on him again.

“Okay!” Joyce exclaimed a little too loudly. “It’s about time for breakfast. Right, Jonathan? Isn’t it time for breakfast?”

“Uh, y-yeah. Sure it is,” Jonathan said, hurriedly flipping over the last two pancakes on the skillet.

“Will, why don’t you help me with the plates and silverware...Dustin, Lucas, you go grab some extra chairs...” Joyce said.

“Anything I can do to help, Ms. Byers?” Billy asked.

He didn’t miss the way Jonathan stiffened.

Honestly, there was nothing Billy could ever do right in his eyes. In any of these people’s eyes really. Not unless he went back in time and changed everything. Not unless he could somehow take back everything he had done...somehow reverse all the pain he had caused every person in this room.

“No, no... thank you though,” Joyce answered.

Billy found himself wishing she had told him to do something, if anything so he could busy himself enough to dull the burn he was feeling from Dustin, Mike, and Lucas' glaring eyes as they bustled around the kitchen. Mostly though, so he wouldn’t feel so much like a guest that was being waited on. Because he wasn’t a guest. He was far, far from it.

He was an enemy living under enemy lines. Or...were they even his enemies? It's not like they had really done anything wrong.

Billy didn't know anymore.

His head was starting to pound even worse.

He closed his eyes and took another sip of coffee.

“Hey, where’s El?” Jonathan asked.

“She went outside to check in with Hopper on the walkie talkie,” Mike answered before sitting back down at the table.

Billy opened his eyes at that. “Is the Chief not here?”

“He’s at work. Why? Scared of Hopper?” Lucas asked cheekily.

Billy clenched his jaw. “I’m not scared of anyone, Sinclair.”

“I'll go get her,” Joyce said, interrupting the tension yet again. “Jonathan, you- you...please keep things calm.”

Jonathan smiled a little. “Sure thing, mom.”

“Good boy,” she breathed out stressfully.

Billy felt a little bad that he was causing her so much trouble, but then again, he didn’t ask for Jonathan to come find him. And he certainly didn’t ask to be brought back to this damn house. If he’d had _his_ way, he would have stayed in that little clubhouse in the woods or just found another run down car to crash in.

Eleven quietly padded in, walkie talkie still in her hands. She was wearing green flannel shorts, a large white t-shirt, and...

“Nice jacket,” Billy commented, recognizing it as his own denim jacket he’d forgotten the other day. The damn thing swallowed her up.

Eleven looked down at her arms. Then she shrugged, “Cold morning.”

It was an answer that was so honest and innocent. No venom lacing the words. No malice. Just...simple. The relief Billy felt over that was stupid, because he didn’t deserve it.

His next words...he wasn't even sure why he said them. Maybe it was to try and give something back for all the trouble he’d caused.

Or maybe, Billy was just trying to be nice for once in his miserable life.

“Well, you can have it if you want. Doesn't quite fit me anymore anyway.”

Mike’s hard stare found him again, but Billy paid no mind. He just looked down at his coffee and took a long sip.

When he looked up again, she had a small smile on her face.

“ _Thank you,_ ” Eleven spoke and signed at the same time.

“No problem, kid,” Billy said with a grin.

Jonathan was studying him, as though waiting for him to reveal some sort of catch behind the niceness. Like it was some sort of act, and any second now Billy was going to yell, “Gotcha!” and rip the jacket off of the small girl’s shoulders.

He wasn't going to do that though.

And he couldn't help the weird fluttering he was feeling in his stomach over doing something that actually made someone smile in gratitude...in happiness.

When was the last time he had done that?

The answer to that was pretty troubling to say the least.

Breakfast went by rather smoothly, with only a few snide remarks here and there.

Billy was hardly even paying attention to them, let alone the innocent conversations they were all having. He couldn't fathom how they could be taking the time to pause and talk with all of this glorious food on the table. Billy couldn't even stop eating for two seconds in order to take a sip of coffee or juice. He wasn’t even hungry, but damn it, these pancakes _were_ good. Everything was damn delicious.

If he had been paying any attention, he would have noticed the glances he was receiving for his poor table manners...not like he would have cared anyway...this breakfast was fucking delicious. Way better than the food in jail. Hell, leaps and bounds better than the leftover food he'd had to scrounge out of restaurant dumpsters for the past few days.

After scarfing down breakfast, Billy sat in a content and sleepy silence, just listening to the group at the table talk almost non-stop about various topics he didn't care about. From Dungeons & Dragons to annoying customers at Joyce’s work...

Billy thought about excusing himself for a quick smoke out front – not like anyone would miss him – before he noticed a lull in the talking. So, instead, he took the time to speak up, albeit a little sheepishly.

“Thanks for, uh, for the breakfast,” he said lowly before clearly his throat and continuing. “And for letting me crash here last night, Ms. Byers.”

She offered a small, tight smile and a nod. Jonathan the same, minus the smile of course.

 _How long are you staying?_ Steve asked.

“How long are you staying?” Jonathan translated quickly.

This was something Billy had yet to think about.

How long _was_ he staying?

“Uh...” Billy started, but suddenly Steve’s fork had gone flying as his arm gave a strong spasm. The bite of pancake remained on the tongs, but the syrup left a small, sticky trail along the floor.

He gave a small whining noise from deep in this throat before signing, _Sorry._

“Oh, sweetie, don’t worry about it,” Joyce said as she stood up.

She was quick to clean up the small mess, but Steve still looked so very defeated. Billy was staring at him in puzzlement, because what was the big deal?

“Getting better, man,” Dustin said brightly as he leaned over and touched Steve's hand.

Steve looked up at him in an upset sort of disbelief, but said nothing.

Yet, Dustin knew exactly what he was thinking...like they had some sort of weird telepathic connection.

“Yeah, really!” Dustin continued enthusiastically as he nodded.

Steve let out a frustrated huff before taking a sip of his lukewarm milky coffee through the straw. Joyce offered him a clean fork but he shook his head with a forced smile of appreciation.

“Don’t want to eat anymore?” Joyce asked in concern.

Steve shook his head again.

She looked a little bothered, but went to put the fork away anyway.

Billy had a sickening feeling that...this was something Steve had been struggling with since...

Damn it, Steve couldn’t even _eat a meal_ properly anymore.

"You sure?" Dustin asked in concern. "You didn't eat that much..."

Steve shook his head and signed a quick something - clearly trying to disguise his distress - before his arm gave another painful and forced jerk, pulling out a small grunt from his throat.

The food in Billy’s stomach was starting to feel an awful lot like lead.

No one else seemed as bothered though. They were all getting back to their conversations...as though Steve wasn't twitching and...and spasming right there in front of them. What the hell was their problem? Why weren't they doing anything to help-

Suddenly, Steve's eyes were on him again, pulling Billy from his irritated wonderings.

Damn it, how long had he been staring?

Steve still seemed bothered, but now he had a rather bemused look on his face.

He grinned in El’s direction as he circled his own lips with an index finger before doing some sort of chest-compression motion with both hands.

_Mouth breather._

Eleven started giggling, followed by Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will...even Max couldn't help it.

Billy would have been annoyed at the obvious teasing, but his eyes were busy tracing something...something he somehow hadn't noticed before...

How had he not noticed it before?

The long scar that ran along the side of Steve’s scalp was clear as day...and it was glaring hauntingly at him.

Steve’s hair was as fluffy and voluminous as ever, but that one scarred strip was bald, jagged, and pale. Billy couldn't even begin to imagine how it must have looked when...after...

Billy looked down and swallowed hard, his throat feeling like sandpaper.

He wasn't even looking anymore, yet the scar was still so present in his mind. It was so prominent. So there.

It was even more proof of what he had done. It was proof that was all the more physical. All the more _there._

All the more...reality.

It made Billy wish he hadn’t eaten so much breakfast because he suddenly felt very, very sick.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for references to car accident + recovery after accident
> 
> TW for reference to seizures
> 
> TW for what could be considered self-deprecation over one's own disabilities
> 
> Feel free to talk to me:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://softplaidpajamas.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) (no minors at this location tho pls)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello again! Thank you so much for the reviews. They really mean a lot.
> 
> **TWs in end notes**

_Drip, drip, drip._

_Drip, after drip, after drip._

_“Steve!”_

_Hopper could hear Dustin calling his name over and over and over again. As though Steve was going to crawl out of the car, leap up, and shout that he was okay...that everything was just fine, just a few bumps and bruises, no biggie._

_Steve wasn’t though._

_Instead, his eyes were closed and his face looked sickeningly slack in the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles and the harsh flickering flares._

_There was something that wouldn’t stop dripping on the kid’s waxen face._

_Hopper couldn’t tell if the kid was even still alive._

_He could’ve sworn he saw him react to his voice for a few seconds, eyes fluttering only just, but it was hard to tell._

_Blood was all over his head, thickly collected in his infamous wavy hair and flowing down his face._

_It was too dark to determine all of the injuries, but he appeared so impossibly crooked all over the place._

_The smell of blood, oil, and other mechanical fluids filled Hopper’s nostrils. It was something he knew his mind would never allow him to forget. He laid belly-down on the road and shimmied partly into the car, the smell filling his nose even more. It was a tight fit and something was digging into his back, but he didn’t care._

_“Stay with me, kid,” Hopper murmured, hoping he could hear him._

_There was no reaction. No movement._

_Just the constant drip, drip, drip of whatever the heck was leaking onto Steve's face._

_Hopper reached forward and swept it away, as though that would help anything at all in the current situation. It felt like something though. And as he did so, Steve’s hair swept across the back of his fingers; something warm painted onto his skin._

_“Chief! They’re here!” came Callahan’s voice._

_Hopper had already been hearing the loud blaring of the fire truck’s horn for a full three minutes, but knowing they were here now, he couldn’t help the sigh of relief. They were going to get Steve out so he could finally get the help he needed._

_If he was still able to be saved._

_Hopper blinked hard, forcing that thought out of his mind._

_Because he wasn’t going to lose another kid._

_He_ wasn’t.

_More footsteps were hurrying around outside the vehicle. Hopper could just make out the bright reflectors on the ends of their turnout pants._

_“Chief, we’re_ _gonna_ _need you out of the way,” came a new voice._

_He knew that was coming, but he had intended to spend every spare second in that vehicle with Steve so he wouldn’t be alone, whether he was aware of his presence or not._

_“We’ll get you out of here, okay?” Hopper said with as much confidence as he could muster before backward-crawling out of the vehicle._

_He stood up, and winced as his back gave a painful twinge._

_Then, in the glow of the chaos all around him, he noticed the bright red blood that decorated his fingers. Steve’s blood._

_“Alright, Chief?” one of the firefighters clapped him on the shoulder._

_Hopper was a professional at pushing away emotions and hiding what he was really feeling, but his anguish must have been pretty damn clear on his face in that moment._

_Instead of answering right away, he just closed his eyes on the sticky red that covered his fingers and breathed in and out, trying to halt the wavering that would surely come out in his voice at that moment if he dared speak._

_“Just get him out,” Hopper said deeply._

_The firefighter spared a glance over his shoulder at Callahan. It was clear to him that this wasn’t just another accident scene._

_This was something else._

_Something more personal._

_“Don’t worry, Chief,” the firefighter said. “We’re on it. Got the Jaws working right now.”_

_As though on cue, Hopper heard an unpleasant metallic crunching and screeching as the powerful tool clamped down and began wrenching away the door from the car’s wrecked body._

_Hopper made sure to turn around and watch the whole thing._

_He watched as the car door was torn off..._

_And he watched as Steve’s horribly slack and bloodied body was pulled from the wreckage._

_Drip, drip, drip._

_Hopper didn’t even pull his eyes away as icy drops of rain started falling from the sky._

_Drip, after drip, after drip._

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Billy was sick.

Like, actually sick.

His body was burning with fever, and a constant ache had settled deep in his muscles and bones. He had noticed that he was feeling rather out of it, clearly not in tip-top shape, but he didn’t think much of it. He just figured that was what happened when someone had to live pretty much outdoors for a few days, eating nothing but strangers’ leftover food from the dumpsters behind restaurants.

It wasn’t until after he excused himself from the kitchen table to have a smoke, that he felt increasingly worse. He attributed it to guilt pains...if that was even a thing. He didn’t think he was actually pathetically ill...which wouldn’t have been as big of a deal if he were still out on his own, but he was at the damn _Byers’ house_ now.

Max had ended up excusing herself to check on him. He’d been sitting on the front stoop with his head in his hands, lost in the feeling of burning fever that had settled behind his eyeballs. She'd thought he was just upset, touching the back of his neck in comfort, only to recoil and snap at him that he was burning up. Like it was his own damn fault or something.

No amount of “I’m fine, Max” or “It’s nothing” was enough to make her drop it. She rushed into the house, and he could hear her loudly asking Joyce for Tylenol and a thermometer.

Billy was tempted to leave...to just go crawl into some other broken-down car and just fester there, but Max was back on the porch before he could convince himself to do so.

Which, led to Billy snapping, “I don’t need a damn-” only for Max to interrupt him by shoving the thermometer under his tongue. He really hoped she had cleaned it first. She probably didn’t.

As it turned out, he had a medium-to-high grade fever, which was just his luck. 

Joyce seemed reluctant as she said the words, “Looks like you’re not going anywhere. Need to get this fever down.”

And, for some reason, he obeyed.

Surely, he could have escaped the clutches of both Ms. Byers and Max, but instead he allowed himself to be led back inside, where he was met once more by glares...plus a rather blank glance from El and a curious stare from Steve...along with... was that concern?

Better not be, that son of a bitch.

“You can, uh, you can take my bed and-” Joyce said, sounding like she was regretting the words as she spoke them. 

“No, Ms. Byers, I’m not taking your bed,” Billy said, head feeling heavier and hazier by the second. “I have a sleeping bag on the floor. S’good enough for me.”

 _He can take my bed,_ Steve said nonchalantly. 

Joyce gave an amiable smile, “Oh, honey, no. That’s-”

Joyce’s response was enough to make Billy realize what Steve had just said.

Oh, that son of a bitch.

Stop it!

He didn’t need-

“He can have mine,” Jonathan stated.

“Jonathan...” Joyce knew how her oldest son felt about Billy, and honestly, she wasn’t his biggest fan either.

“Mom, it’s fine,” he said, offering the smallest of smiles.

Mike was making an array of disgusted faces, but thankfully keeping his mouth shut, clearly taking note that this was more a matter between the people that actually lived there.

Joyce looked at Billy with an awkward smile that was probably meant to be comforting, but to him it just looked like forced pity. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need _this._

But, damn it, his head was absolutely _pounding._

Joyce’s face then shifted into a deeper sort of apprehension.

Shit, she had said something to him, hadn’t she? He really needed to stop phasing out like that, but the fogginess in his head was making it so damn hard.

“’M’sorry, what?” Billy asked, blinking his eyes hard and slightly shaking his head to try and relieve some of the clogged feeling.

“Oh, boy, you really don’t look good...” Joyce murmured, furrowing her eyebrows. “Max, would you mind taking him into the room and laying him down in Jonathan’s bed?”

That made Billy even more irritated, because he didn’t need his little sister guiding him. He could walk just fi-

Joyce put a firm hand on his bicep as he turned and almost ran into the doorframe.

Okay, so he was a _little_ sicker than he previously thought. Not like Max would be able to fucking catch him if he fell face-first on the floor though.

“Damn, Billy,” Max said, poorly disguising her concern with irritation as she guided him through the small crowded room, past his sleeping bag, and to the bed closest to the window.

He had to admit, a bed sounded a lot nicer to his aching body than the hard floor.

“’M’fine, Max,” he slurred.

“Yeah, you sure look fine,” she retorted sarcastically.

Billy shot her a look.

If it weren’t for the clogged pounding in his brain, he would have been able to hear Joyce, Jonathan, and Dustin quietly arguing right outside the door.

Because if it had to do with Steve, then it was Dustin’s business too. They were brothers in all but blood, after all.

“Honey, I can’t just throw him out when he’s sick like this,” Joyce said.

“Why not?” Dustin asked in annoyance.

“If I send him out there, who knows where or how he’ll end up,” Joyce reasoned. “Plus, he’s Max’s brother. I can’t just-”

Eleven was helping Steve clean up the kitchen as the three argued.

Steve didn’t understand what the big deal was with just letting the guy stay for a little longer. Sure, he wasn’t Billy’s biggest fan either, but he had looked about ready to keel over.

After Dustin accepted defeat in the argument, Jonathan began ushering he, Mike, and Lucas out, indicating that it was probably best if they headed home. 

Dustin went over to where Steve was standing by the sink, looking lost in thought like he was trying to remember something. Which, he probably was.

Dustin put a hand on his older friend’s back and let him know that he was leaving. Steve gave a smile and ruffled his curly hair.

“Come on, man,” Dustin grumbled. “Don’t mess up the do I got going on.”

 _Right, I hear messy hat hair is really in this year,_ Steve said pointedly.

“You can’t hear anything so how would you know?” Dustin retorted.

Steve raised his eyebrows as though to say “touché” before getting back to slowly and clumsily helping El clean up.

Dustin gave one last glowering look at the door he knew Billy lay behind before following Jonathan out of the room.

When the front door shut, Joyce let out a tired sigh and looked at the floor before bringing her eyes up to her youngest, who was looking at her with slight concern. She just put a gentle hand on his head though and offered a smile before turning back to the kitchen.

“Oh, you didn’t have to start cleaning up! Let me take care of it...”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Since it was a school night, Jonathan drove Max home. They both wished it was two weeks into the future so that school would already be out for summer. That way, Max would be able to care for Billy while Jonathan didn’t have to have any part of it. That wasn’t the case though, so he just drowned his troubles and frustrations in chemicals as he developed more pictures.

Joyce had to run to the store for some sort of emergency, and Hopper wasn’t due to leave work for another few hours, so that left Steve and Eleven alone at the house.

They hadn’t seen Billy again since that morning. He hadn’t emerged from the bedroom to get a glass of water, or pee, or anything. The only proof that he was even still in the house was the hacking coughs that would erupt from the bedroom.

 _Still coughing up a lung,_ Steve said after the sudden noise made Eleven’s eyes widen in alarm yet again.

She nodded and signed back, _Really sick._

Steve sighed. _Be right back._

Eleven nodded again.

Steve secured the crutch to his arm and stood up, testing his legs a bit before limping out of the room.

While he could have used Eleven’s help at some parts, he was grateful she was letting him do it all on his own. He just hoped he didn’t break or spill anything.

He placed the porcelain enamel kettle under the kitchen faucet and filled it with water before putting it on a burner.

Then, it took about a full minute for him to remember where Joyce kept the handle of whiskey. When he retrieved it, he poured an impressive amount into a large mug. He followed it up with a couple generous squirts of honey.

His eyes traced the faded floral pattern that decorated the side of the kettle as he waited for the steam to start shooting from the spout.

Pouring the hot water was a bit sloppy. He spilled some of it over the edge of the mug, but he managed all the same.

He managed it _by himself._

It was simple things like this that felt like such an achievement anymore.

Steve limped his way to the bedroom, somehow managing to spill only a little bit of the beverage as he went. He nudged the door open and made his way into the room, sure to avoid tripping on the sleeping bag that still lay on the floor.

Billy didn’t budge, clearly asleep following his most recent coughing fit.

Steve was just placing the mug on the side table when his stupid arm spasmed and some of the liquid was tossed over the rim. He let out a small hiss as the hot liquid met his skin.

He almost made a seat out of Billy’s ass as he practically collapsed on the bed...his legs noodling out as though refusing to hold him up anymore due to that one distraction.

Billy awoke with a start.

He blinked slowly at Steve, a hint of defensiveness on his face, as though he wasn’t sure where he was or who was in the room with him. Recognition settled in his eyes though and he eased up a bit.

“The hell you doing, Harrington?” he mumbled tiredly.

Steve made an equivocal grunt, as though wanting to use verbal words but not quite able to commit to it. Billy’s forehead creased in confusion and slight annoyance.

Steve did some sort of movement with one hand.

“What?” Billy said.

Steve rolled his eyes in frustration and huffed out a puff of air.

He removed his crutch so he could use both hands and arms freely. Then he gestured to the side of the bed, a softer noise passing his lips.

Billy turned his head and blinked at the steaming mug that sat in a small puddle on the side table.

“Oh,” Billy grunted awkwardly. “Thanks.” 

He scooted up into a more upright sitting position, absolutely hating how shaky and feeble his movements were.

Billy wasn’t much of a tea person, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. Hell, maybe it would soothe some of the painful scratchiness in his throat.

He also figured taking a sip could get Harrington to leave the room, because why the hell was he still here anyway?

Billy took in an impressive mouthful of the drink before almost spitting it out all over Steve.

“What the f—fuck- the fuck is-” he sputtered after he swallowed. “That’s not tea!”

Steve laughed.

He was actually laughing at him. It was a little wobbly but it was still, very much, a laugh.

Billy looked at him incredulously while Steve just shook his head and signed something.

“Yeah, no shit it’s whiskey,” Billy spat.

Okay, so he hadn't _really_ known what that sign had meant, but what else could it have been? So, Billy just went with it.

“What the hell you trying to do to me, Harrington?”

Steve’s smile didn’t falter though as he ran his thumb and forefinger up and down along the front of his neck. 

“Yeah, no shit I have a sore throat, what was your first clue?” Billy snapped.

Steve rolled his eyes again, like Billy was just so stupid.

A few guttural noises left his throat as he mouthed a silent word over and over, until finally he verbally spoke it.

“H-helps,” Steve stated.

His voice threw Billy for a loop. He hadn’t heard it since the first day he arrived back in Hawkins.

 _It might also help you stay asleep,_ Steve said, though he knew Billy wouldn’t understand him.

“Yeah?” Billy questioned anyway before taking another sip.

The satisfied noise that left his mouth was only a little bit mortifying. Now that he knew what to expect, he had to admit that the honey cutting through the sharp flavor of the whiskey felt nice on his grating throat. And the whiskey was already starting to go to his head and make him sleepy.

Damn, it really _had_ been a long time since he’d drank alcohol.

Steve placed the crutch back on his forearm and stood up.

Billy immediately looked down at the amber liquid in his hands, unable to bring himself to watch Steve stand up so carefully and clumsily, as though he were a newborn foal using his legs for the first time... showing a clear uncertainty of whether they were even going to support him.

Just as Steve reached the doorway though, Billy looked up again.

“Steve!”

Steve turned around and looked at him.

“Thank you,” Billy said as he held up the mug.

Steve just nodded, offering a smile before continuing his way out of the room.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

That evening, Hopper found himself wanting to drive straight to his cabin instead of the Byers’ house. He simply did not want to deal with Billy Hargrove.

He had been tempted to turn him around and send him right back out the door when Jonathan brought him back.

Jonathan had thought he was being quiet. The only problem was, Hopper had become a much lighter sleeper over the past few years. Maybe it was because of all of the paranormal crap he’d had to deal with. Whatever the case, he knew that Jonathan had found the guy and brought him back.

Jonathan and Steve were sitting on a large blanket in the front yard, both participating in Steve’s physical therapy exercises. Will was sitting off to the side in the grass, coloring something with a violet-colored crayon. Joyce and Eleven were sitting on the porch glider, the latter reading a book and eating yet another cookie.

That kid really did eat far too many sweets.

As soon as Joyce saw Hopper pull into the driveway, her face fell into a wary expression and she stood up.

Hopper sighed as he put the cruiser in park.

All he really wanted to do was crack open a beer or two, then follow it up with a nice long nap.

“Hop, before you go inside-” Joyce said, holding up her hands like she was trying to calm a rankled animal.

“I know, Joyce,” Hopper interrupted.

Jonathan was watching from where he sat a little ways away on the blanket. Will peaked up from his drawing.

“Is he still here?”

"Yes.”

Hopper sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut toward the sky for a moment before settling his eyes on Joyce again.

“Why?” he asked rather woodenly.

Her lips tightened a bit, and a weird look crossed her features.

“So, now he’s staying,” Hopper stated rather than asked, not bothering to keep his voice down in the slightest.

He and Joyce were standing right outside the bedroom Billy resided in. Hopper’s voice clearly was of no bother to him though, because Billy was completely knocked out, snoring like a freight train.

“It’s like I told Dustin...I couldn’t, in good conscience, just throw him out like this,” Joyce shrugged. “Is that what you would have done?”

Hopper looked at her with a hard stare that clearly said “Damn right I would’ve.” 

Joyce met him with a hard gaze of her own, “No you would not.”

In all honesty, Hopper wasn’t sure what he would have done, but that didn’t mean Joyce had to know that.

“All I know is, this is starting to become a bigger problem than he’s even worth,” Hopper said. “I mean, why are we suddenly responsible for this kid?”

“We’re not responsible for him, but he’s still Max’s brother,” Joyce reasoned.

“Exactly! So let’s just send him her way and she can deal with it!” he exclaimed as he walked into the kitchen.

Joyce was following right on his heels as he made his way to the fridge. He opened it and grabbed the cold beer he had been craving all damn day.

“I couldn’t do _that_ in good conscience either,” Joyce said as he took a large swig, a small bit of froth decorating his mustache. “Neil would kill him.”

Hopper looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he just looked toward the counter where the whiskey still sat. He pointed.

“Who was drinking whiskey?”

“Steve made him some kind of drink while I was gone,” Joyce said dismissively.

“Why?” Hopper asked as though the very thought disgusted him.

“I don’t know, but it helped because now he’s not coughing every ten minutes,” Joyce shrugged.

“Yeah, now he’s just snoring like a damn grizzly,” Hopper retorted, putting the can on the counter a little too hard.

“Where are you going?”

“To say a few words, then I’m heading back to the cabin with El and Steve."

“You don’t have to-”

“What? You expect me to leave him here with the guy that almost killed him? _Twice_? Yeah, don’t think so,” Hopper laughed cynically.

Before Joyce could say anything more, Hopper stepped into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

Billy jolted awake, nearly falling off the bed as he exclaimed, “Shit, fuck!”

“Alright, so this is how this is gonna go...” Hopper said as he made his way over to the foot of the bed. “You’re going to hit the road the _very second_ you feel better. I don’t care where you go or what you do...you’re just gonna go. Got it?”

Billy was squinting blearily at him, and Hopper wasn't sure if the words had even registered in his brain. He had to admit that he _did_ look really sick. His hair was a mess from fever slumber, and his eyes looked dull and tired; the hard glare that never seemed to leave his eyes was nowhere to be found. Instead, he just looked...tired. Tired and sick.

“Got it?” Hopper stated firmly again, though a little gentler.

“Got it,” Billy responded in a scratchy voice.

That threw him a bit because...Hopper was honestly expecting more of a fight from the guy. His rigid stance waned a bit, and he nodded in confirmation before turning to leave the room.

“But...”

Hopper turned back around to look at a slightly-more-lucid Billy, but his next words made him wonder if he was even aware of what he was saying or if it was just the fever talking.

“I’m still going to try and make things up, y’know,” Billy continued tiredly.

Hopper furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m...I’m gonna...” Billy started, trailing off to sit up further in the bed. “I’m still gonna try and make it up to Harring- Steve...for- for everything.”

“Hargrove...” Hopper said lowly. “He doesn’t remember. For all he knows, you just skipped town to live it up in California or something. He doesn’t know that you-”

“I know,” Billy interrupted with a tone and gaze that was a bit more solid. “I know, but...I just need- I need to do this.”

Hopper stared at him for a couple of seconds before saying, “No.”

Billy looked surprised. He opened his mouth to argue.

“No,” Hopper reaffirmed a bit louder.

Billy’s expression darkened. “I don’t think that’s your call.”

“Not my call?” Hopper echoed in a quiet yet dangerous voice. “Not my call? How about you ask me what Steve looked like in that wrecked car, looking more dead than alive? Why don’t you ask me how he looked with a shaved head and _forty_ staples holding his skin together where they’d had to remove a piece of skull in order to drain the blood that had hemorrhaged against his brain?”

Billy opened his mouth, but Hopper’s voice got louder and cut him off.

“How about you _ask me_ about the hours, upon hours spent watching Steve struggle through painful rehabilitation just so he could even _try_ walking again? _How about_ you get through your thick skull all the things that have had to change so drastically in his life all because of some stupid fucking decision you made? Once you experience all that, _then_ you can tell me it’s not my _damn_ call.”

“I just want a chance to make things right!” Billy spoke up suddenly, unable to take the visuals that Hopper was throwing at him.

“You can’t!” Hopper shouted, and Billy flinched back. “There _is no_ making this _right,_ Hargrove!”

Billy mouthed wordlessly before his eyes fell, now looking at Hopper’s knees rather than his face. He wasn’t able to hold the eye contact anymore. It was just too much. This was all too much.

Hopper was still breathing heavy and glaring daggers, but he forced his voice to soften a little as he said, “Listen, it’s admirable...you coming here and wanting to...to do this. But this isn’t about you. And no matter how badly you want to...make things right...you can’t. You just can’t.”

There was a long moment of heavy silence, and Hopper thought about leaving the room so he could finally finish the beer that was getting warm on the kitchen counter. Before he could even reach for the doorknob though, Billy spoke up again.

“Can I please just...have a few days?” Hopper opened his mouth, but Billy kept going in an almost urgent, desperate tone of voice. “So I can...if I can’t at least _try_ and make it up in some way...can I at least apologize for what I did?”

“What is that going to solve?” Hopper shook his head.

“I-I don’t know, but...” Billy's voice was becoming heavier with emotion. “I just...I need to. And I think Steve deserves to know.”

Hopper’s mouth had been hanging open a little dumbly, but he clicked it shut and sniffed, rubbing at his mustache a bit. “He does.”

Hopper stared at multiple framed photographs scattered along the wall. It was a collection of images containing all the kids plus himself, Steve, Nancy, and Joyce. Jonathan had taken all of them except for one, which also happened to be the only photograph he was actually in; it showed a much-younger Jonathan holding a newborn Will.

Hopper’s eyes moved to focus on a photograph of Steve and Dustin. They were both laughing at something. The prominent scar on Steve’s head was directly facing the lens, but it did nothing to deter from the sheer joy within the image.

If anything, it just made it all the more special.

It was a photograph displaying strength, recovery, love, friendship...

And if Hopper wasn’t so emotionally constipated he would tell Jonathan as such. The kid really did have a knack for capturing special moments.

Hopper swallowed hard and pursed his lips in thought.

“You have one week.”

Billy’s face lit up, and Hopper fought the urge to retract the offer right then and there. He opened his mouth to say something but Hopper cut him off.

“You recover from whatever this is, then you have one week. Not even a second longer,” he said before opening the door. “One week.”

He shut the door behind him a lot quieter than when he’d come in.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

It took Billy about four whole days to recover. He had spent most of it cooped up in the bedroom sleeping, eating soup, and drinking water and...whatever the heck that drink was Steve kept making him. He only left the room to shower the nasty fever sweat off his body and to piss. Besides that, he stayed out of the way and kept to himself...like a troll in the attic that refused to leave.

Steve spent those four nights with Hopper and Eleven, which Billy felt sort of bad about, considering he practically kicked him out of his room. But then he reminded himself that the alternative would have been Steve continuing to sleep in his own bed...which was practically attached to Jonathan’s. So it would have been kind of like he was sleeping next to the guy he almost killed.

Needless to say, that would have been really freaking weird...so he got over it.

Every day, Max would bring by a few of Billy’s old belongings that had long since been shoved under his old bed and to the back of a closet. She brought old magazines, clothes, his cassette tapes, Walkman... and he was embarrassingly excited to see that no one had thrown out his favorite Motley Crue t-shirt.

Then Max would linger for a couple of hours before going home.

The home that Billy was no longer welcome at.

By the end of the fourth day, Billy emerged from the bedroom dressed in fresh clothes that were his own, and holding the dirty bedding he’d been sleeping in. He deposited them in the washer and started it up before making his way out onto the porch.

He breathed in the pleasant scent of the afternoon air. The air tickled and chilled his nostrils a little as it passed through his cleared sinuses. It smelled wonderful compared to the dank sweaty sheets he’d been in for the past few days.

Billy sat on the ugly orange glider, listening as the first crickets started their regular summertime chirping. He then pulled out a pack of cigarettes and placed one of the sticks between his teeth.

Yeah, so maybe smoking wasn’t the best idea considering he’d only _just_ gotten over being sick, but fuck it.

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back and had only just taken the first pull when he heard the front door open, followed by short clumsy footsteps. When he peaked over, he could see Steve making his way over to sit next to him.

He had a notebook, and for a second Billy was confused. Was he just sitting next to him to draw, or...?

Steve sat on the glider and Billy had the sudden urge to lean out and grab him, in case the swinging movement of the bench caused him to fall over. Steve seemed to have it covered though, so Billy eased back.

After removing the crutch, Steve began sloppily writing something down on the notepad. He was biting at his lip and his eyebrows were furrowed.

Billy almost asked what the hell he was doing, but didn’t want to disrupt his obvious concentration. So, he decided on patience instead.

Steve held up the notebook.

The handwriting was messy and a bit crooked, but Billy could still read it.

_Feel better?_

Billy gave a small nod. “Yeah. Guess I am. Uh, thanks.”

Steve turned the notepad back around like he wanted to write something else. At least, Billy assumed he was going to. He found it a little hard to believe he limped out here just to ask if he was feeling better.

_Can I ask something?_

Billy read then nodded. “Uh, sure.”

Steve quickly flipped the notepad back around, only to pause. He looked thoughtful, though not in the way he had before. This was different. He looked as though he were having an internal battle on whether he should or should not say something.

Again, Billy was patient.

Steve started unceremoniously scribbling. He looked sort of angry or frustrated...and maybe he was.

Suddenly, Billy wondered if Steve had figured it out on his own. If maybe he had come to the realization that Billy was to blame for everything that had happened.

Steve whipped the notepad around.

_You not ask me about this._

Billy squinted. What?

“What?” he blurted rather rudely before he could even stop himself.

Steve’s face fell. He gave a frustrated whine before frantically starting to scribble out the sentence.

Billy was quick to react. “No, no, I can read it, I’m just...what do you mean?”

Steve seemed a little relieved that Billy had been able to read his messy handwriting. He thought for a moment before bending down to write something else.

_Not ask about what happened to me. Why?_

Oh...

Oh.

Of course Steve was confused about that. 

Billy had just waltzed right back into their lives completely and randomly out of the blue. It was like Hopper said...for all Steve knew, Billy was just a drunk that had skipped town, only to appear again unexpectedly and with no explanation. And then, for Billy to not even comment about what the heck had happened while he was gone...

Of course, though, he hadn’t asked because he already knew.

Billy swallowed hard.

This was it.

He knew this day would come eventually. He just wasn’t expecting it to be _today._

Billy harshly cleared his throat a couple times, partly because he wasn’t really trusting his voice and partly because he was just taking up time.

“I...I’m...” he started, thankful his voice wasn’t coming out shaky or meek.

Steve was looking at him with those impossibly soft, curious eyes again. Billy refused to meet them.

His eyes moved down to a corroded spot on the glider seat. He ran his fingers across the rough area a little too hard, letting it scuff up his skin a bit and leave tiny particles of rust on his fingertips.

“I haven’t asked because...because I’m...” Billy took a deep breath and look up into Steve’s eyes, because the least he could do was look at him as he said this. “I’m...”

He stopped, the words he’d been meaning to say not even making it past his lips. They burned like an overly ripe jalapeno on the very tip of his tongue.

Because there was that gaze again. The gaze that always managed to pierce through him like nobody else’s ever could. Not Neil’s, not Hopper’s, not Max’s. Not even any of the guards or fellow prisoners at the jail in Arizona.

Billy swallowed the words back down.

“I just didn’t want to bring up any bad memories I guess,” Billy said softly.

Steve blinked once before smiling lightly, _Thanks._

The tension in Billy’s shoulders relaxed as relief flowed through him...

And he fucking hated himself for it.

He had just told a bold-faced lie right to Steve’s face...and he was _relieved_ that he _believed_ him.

Billy felt like the utmost scum of the earth...even as he returned the smile.

“That’s...that’s ‘thanks,’ right?” he asked tentatively, trying to shove away the shame he was feeling.

Steve’s face brightened a bit, and he nodded before repeating the sign; touching his chin and moving his hand down in a swift backwards motion.

Billy felt a little stupid, but mirrored the action anyway to the best of his ability.

_Thank you._

_Thank you._

Steve let out that wavering laugh at his expense, and Billy knew he’d messed it up somehow. He tried again though...and then one more time for good measure.

Before Billy knew it, he was receiving a lesson in sign language on the Byers’ front porch...from full questions to singular words, he was miming Steve’s actions as though his life depended on it. 

_How are you?_

_How are you?_

_Sister._

_Sister._

For a while, Billy forgot everything that had been troubling him. He forgot about the fact that he had no job and no home. He forgot about his long list of wrongdoings and indiscretions.

He forgot about his lying.

By the time Billy was learning the sign for Steve's favorite color, the weighted thoughts had begun leaving his head and blowing away in the slight summer breeze.

And by the time Steve was teaching the sign for Billy’s favorite color, they had officially faded from his mind.

_Yellow._

_Yellow._

_Purple._

_Purple._

Billy got lost in the impromptu lesson, feeling a strange sense of joy that continued even as the summer sun sank lower in the sky and the lightning bugs emerged from their hiding spots to dance through the air.

_Happy._

_Happy._

_Friend._

_Friend._

**.**

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**.**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a pretty graphic depiction of a car accident  
> TW for regarding one’s own disabilities in a negative way  
> TW for quick reference to child abuse  
> TW for some graphic talk about surgery
> 
> Feel free to talk to me:  
> [Tumblr](https://softplaidpajamas.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/softplaidpjs) (no minors at this location tho pls)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello again! I am SO sorry for how long this took to get out. I can’t even really say when the next chapter will come, but I have had this chapter partially written for MONTHS now and I really wanted to get it up.
> 
> Thank you again for the reviews, bookmarks, and kudos! And thank you to anyone willing to still follow this story!
> 
> **TWs in end notes**

_Hopper watched as Steve was finally freed from the wrecked car. His body flopped out, as though all the bones had completely left his body._

_“You need to stand back, sir,” an EMT said, pressing a hand to his chest and causing him to back up a few steps._

_That was odd. Usually, Hopper was expected to be right in the middle of every damn thing that happened in Hawkins. If someone so much as farted and it smelled a bit off, he was notified and_ _told_ _all about it._

 _Now though? Now he was expected to stand by and...and just_ watch.

 _He figured there was nothing more he_ could _do though. Not in that moment anyway. He would only get in the way of the paramedics rushing around Steve as they prodded, poked, and secured..._

_The rain had begun steadily coming down harder and harder, and yet it couldn't wash away the grave hideousness of the scene._

_Even in the dim, yellow glow of the street lamps, Hopper could see Steve’s head loll around as though he were made of gelatin. Which, in turn, revealed a sight that made the Chief’s stomach plummet down to his ankles._

_It was suddenly explicitly clear that the left side of Steve’s skull was a mess of torn skin and blood. Hopper was honestly expecting to see ivory bone showing through the blood and the gore._

_The sight was so horrifically unpleasant, yet Hopper refused to look away._

_He watched it all._

_He watched as the paramedics angled Steve’s face toward the sky, securing a neck brace to keep his head from moving. He watched as one of the paramedics kept a heavy cloth pressed against Steve’s gaping head wound while another stabilized his left leg in a large splint. He watched as they intubated him, moving an endotracheal tube down his throat in a way that should have felt so very uncomfortable and invasive, and yet Steve’s face remained sickeningly slack._

_And he watched as Steve’s gurney was lifted and pushed quickly into the back of the ambulance. Except this time, Hopper didn’t just watch, he followed right on their heels and hopped in the back of the ambulance with them. Hopper was all too ready to abandon his cruiser in order to ride with the kid. He couldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t._

_Hopper felt just as stupid and useless in the back of the ambulance though._

_He kept his eyes on the young man lying on the gurney, not breaking away for even a second._

_Steve was so very still and alarmingly damaged it was making Hopper’s heart beat into his throat. The kid’s face was paler than a porcelain doll, contrasting harshly with all of the bruising that was growing darker by the second._

_He swiped a weary hand down his face, rain water leaking from his moustache and down his chin._

_Hopper placed a gentle, firm hand on Steve’s head, cautious to not get in the way of the paramedic who was still holding the heavy cloth against the other side of his skull. Hopper spared only a quick glance at the paramedic, who met his eyes and provided a small nod of approval._

_A couple of paramedics were still working around him, focused on keeping Steve attached to the world._

_The rain pounded against the vehicle as they sped along the road._

_It was loud. It was chaos._

_And Hopper kept his hand on the boy’s head. It was all he could do._

**.**

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**.**

The morning air was drenched in dewy warmth as Hopper ushered Steve and Eleven out the door, aiding the latter with the steps and hovering all the way to the cruiser. It was muggy, rainy days like this that sent Steve into a sort of foggy, painful insensibility. So, he needed the extra help to do...pretty much everything.

Hopper knew the weather was what caused the influx of pain and discomfort, but he also couldn’t help but wonder if it had to do with his obscure memories of the accident. Because, after all, certain everyday things could send Steve into a panic...the screeching of tires, a sudden burst of loud music, glass shattering, and even the smell of burning rubber. Joyce learned the the hard way about the latter when her tires slid in place at a stop sign, causing the unpleasant scent to waft into the car.

His negative reactions to such stimuli had eased up quite a bit since the beginning, but some of it would still make itself known from time-to-time. Not that Steve could really help it.

Even though Hopper was dropping them off at the Byers’, he felt bad uprooting him amidst such malaise. But Hopper had gotten an urgent call to come down to the station. He had a feeling that it wasn’t going to be all that urgent after all, and he could already feel the irritation creeping up.

Hopper’s thumb drummed an erratic, rapid beat on the steering wheel. He really, _really_ needed a cigarette.

Scratch that, he didn’t _need_ it. He was stronger than a damn stick of paper rolled around some stupid plant.

Steve gave an involuntary noise of discomfort and rolled his head a bit against the damp window.

Double scratch that...he _did_ need that cigarette.

It had been three months since he and Joyce both decided to quit the habit, and he’d like to think he had been doing pretty damn good...with a few slip-ups here and there.

A couple of those times, Joyce had crossed her arms and delivered the ultimate disapproving glare that only a mom could execute.

Joyce was definitely not completely innocent, though. It was only a couple weeks ago that Dustin had caught her smoking out in the woods and she paid him twenty dollars not to say anything. Then, not a day later, Hopper did the exact same thing. The damn twerp made forty dollars off of two adults who simply couldn’t say no to a cigarette.

Needless to say, both adults found out that they had _both_ paid the kid off, and what proceeded was an argument of ridiculously immature proportions; both of them sounding like children that had been caught doing something wrong but neither wanting to admit it.

Steve’s discomfort was becoming more and more clear as they neared their destination, emerging as dull, repetitive moans. One after the other, after the other, after the other...

Not that the noises were his fault. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. And rather than it sparking any sort of annoyance in the police chief, he just felt stressed and helpless.

Hopper made eye contact with Eleven in the reflection of the rearview mirror. This wasn’t their first rodeo. Steve had had multiple days like this, but their concern was present every single time.

“El, get a straw out of the center console, would ya?” Hopper said.

Eleven nodded as Hopper busied himself with unscrewing the lid off a water bottle while also keeping his eyes on the road.

Eleven unbuckled and leaned forward to access the compartment. It was full of fast food napkins, straws, and ketchup packets. She pulled out a straw and unwrapped it before plopping it into the water bottle.

Hopper spared a glance at Steve’s miserable form in the passenger seat, “Hey, kid, you want some water?”

Steve dug his hands into his hair and shook his head rather forcibly, emitting something verbal that could have been taken for a “No.”

“You sure? You haven’t eaten or drank anything all day. Might do you some good to-”

“N-n-no. Pl-please...no, n-n-” Steve forcefully warbled out the words as though they had been trapped in his chest and finally managed to find their way out. “N-n-n...”

“Okay, okay, kid. Okay,” Hopper said in as soothing a voice as he could muster.

Steve had moved on from the repetitive, short moaning noises to just shakily repeating the “N” sound as though his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had begun rocking back-and-forth, hands still buried deep in his hair as though that would ground him to earth in some way. It didn’t though. It never did.

“It’s okay, kid. It’s okay,” Hopper hushed, tentatively placing his hand on Steve’s knee.

Hopper was never fully certain if he was doing any of this right. Sometimes it felt like he was just bringing the poor kid even more distress and pain...and sometimes even annoyance.

However, Steve’s noisy tic and rocking motions waned just slightly at the comforting gesture, and it assured Hopper that he must be doing something right...if only for that moment.

And that was all he could ever really hope for.

Hopper tightened the hold on Steve’s knee a bit, now that he knew it was an okay thing to be doing.

If this was something he could do to keep the kid grounded or to comfort him, then damn it, he was going to do it.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Billy sat on the porch steps, his lip curled like he had eaten something sour and disgusting as he focused on the book next to him. Its paper cover was folded over and clipped with a clothespin so it could sit open as he practiced.

He had been relentlessly studying the sign language books, and it honestly felt like he had been at it for _months._ Though, in reality, it had only been a couple days.

When he wasn’t eating, sleeping, or trying to find a job, he was studying the illustrated hand movements on the pages.

At first he felt rather stupid, awkwardly moving his hands like someone who had just sprouted new limbs from his body and still wasn't quite sure how to use them.

Now though? He was too damn frustrated to feel stupid.

Max offered to help him study, but he declined. He was adamant on doing this himself.

_“It can’t be_ that _hard, Maxine,” Billy spoke with an arrogant scoff._

But as it turned out, it _was_ that hard. Though, it’s not like he could turn around and ask Max for help. He had too much stupid pride for that.

Billy sighed in exasperation and whipped his head up, breaking his gaze from the book as though it had personally insulted him. He snatched a cigarette from the breast pocket of his denim shirt. Joyce had pulled out some of her ex-husband's clothes that she, for some reason, still owned and gave them to Billy. Which was good because, frankly, he was getting tired of Jonathan purposefully providing him clothes that made him look ridiculous.

Sure, Max had fetched his old clothes and belongings that had still remained at the house, but there was still the fact that he was a completely different size now.

Which was another thing...he really needed to work on toning his body again.

Instead though, he was staring at this stupid fucking book full of illustrated hands.

Billy angrily lit the cigarette and sucked in. The smoke shot down his throat and filled his mouth before billowing out of his nose, giving him the appearance of a fierce, treasure-guarding dragon.

Not that he had any treasure to guard. He hadn’t a dime to his name.

The only reason he had cigarettes on him was because he had stolen some before Jonathan practically forced him into taking refuge at his house...and because Joyce was trying to quit. So, she was happily giving him all of the cigarettes she had stashed around the house.

At least he was good for _something._

Billy’s attention was brought to a familiar police cruiser pulling into the driveway.

He could feel the police chief’s glare penetrating through the glass, and even though Billy knew that Hopper had every right to hate him, he still felt a sense of satisfaction over the fact that he was smoking a cigarette when the guy was trying to quit. Billy knew he didn’t threaten the large man one bit, but at least _this_ could make him squirm.

And Billy was Billy, after all...gaining humor and satisfaction from poking at others expense.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_“That’s bullshit!” Dustin exclaimed._

_The doctor had just declined the kids’ admission into Steve’s hospital room, and the words had barely even left his mouth when Dustin blew up._

_“Dusty!” Claudia Henderson scolded, hands planted on her son’s shoulders. “I’m sure the doctor knows-”_

_“No, screw that, I’m going to see him!” Dustin announced in aggravation, pulling out of his mother’s grasp and_ _marching_ _forward as though he had any idea where to go._

_Whatever. He would figure it out._

_“Hey, hey!” Hopper moved in front of him and blocked his way, feeling only a little foolish in the side-step dance they were doing as the young teen continued to try and weasel his way past. “He’s in_ critical care, _you know what that means?”_

_“I can handle whatever’s back there! We don’t abandon a member of the Party!” Dustin shouted._

_“Dusty, keep your voice down!” Claudia reprimanded weakly, but Dustin was paying her absolutely no mind._

_“I can handle it! I can handle it, Hop!” his voice cracked as emotion and tears began clogging his throat._

_Shit, Hopper was_ not _good with the emotional thing. He had gotten better since adopted El, but it was still a little awkward and difficult for him to handle._

_Jonathan thought briefly about moving forward to help, but his arm was currently wrapped around Nancy, who had a fresh batch of tears rolling down her face at the display._

_Dustin was starting to sound more and more like a little kid who needed consoling after a harsh nightmare, “He-he needs us! He needs m-me!”_

_That made Hopper pull the curly-haired teen against him. He half-expected the gesture to be met with a harsh punch to the gut, but much to his surprise, Dustin just gave loud sob and buried his face into his shirt that still smelled of cigarette smoke, rainwater, and faint remnants of cologne._

_Dustin was saying something amidst his heavy weeping, and Hopper could understand very little of it._

_“A-alone...s’alone...!” Dustin sobbed._

_“Kid, it’s okay. Hey, it’s okay...Joyce and I are going back there, alright?” Hopper assured firmly and in as gentle a voice as he could muster in his exhaustion. “He’s not going to be alone. Steve’s not going to be alone, okay?”_

_Dustin continued sobbing though, and as much as Hopper wanted to appear the steely police chief completely unaffected by anything and everything, he needed to know that this kid heard him and believed him._

_“Okay?”_

_Finally, Dustin nodded, smearing snot and tears all over as his face stayed pressed against his shirt._

_Hopper sighed and rubbed his large hand on the boy’s curly head._

_He knew this had to be especially hard on Dustin. In a weird twist of fate, he and Steve had practically become brothers from another mother._

_Dustin, and the rest of the kids for that matter, had a_ really _hard time just letting things_ be, _especially if it had to do with someone they loved._

 _There had been so many times Steve had been there for them, and now Dustin couldn’t even return the favor, and it made him feel so very helpless and_ useless _._

 _Never mind the countless rides Steve had provided them, and all the_ _Upside Down_ _crap...Steve was there for the other things too. For the past few years, he had remained an unwavering factor and support in their lives._

_He was there when Claudia was on a trip with her sister and Dustin caught a really nasty fever._

_“Damn it, Dustin, are you dipping yourself into a hot tub when I leave the room? Your temperature increases every five seconds,” Steve said, his complaining being utilized as a disguise for his fear and concern._

_Because Dustin's fever just kept getting higher and higher. What was the highest temperature of fever a kid was supposed to have before they needed to be taken to the hospital? 103 degrees? 104 degrees? Lower? Higher? Fuck if he knew._

_“H-hey, Dusty...I know you’re feeling like dog shit, but what temperature means hospital?” Steve asked, feeling like a complete moron. He felt like he should know this._

_Dustin furrowed his eyebrows, “_ _Mmm_ _, 104 degrees I’d say.”_

_Steve let out a relieved breath. Okay, that’s good. He was good then._

_But he was most certainly_ not _good. Because Dustin’s temperature continued to climb as the day wore on. Steve was about to rip his hair out in frustration and worry. He wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions, but he was trying his best so as not to stress Dustin out._

_Dustin could kind of sense it though, even in his miserable state._

_And even as the fever got to its peak that night, fogging his brain and clouding his senses…Dustin knew Steve was there the whole time._

_He was there to place a cold cloth on his head, repeatedly dipping it in ice water for hours on end._

_He was there to fix chicken and rice soup, sprinkling extra salt into Dustin’s portion just the way he liked it._

_He was there to tell Dustin he needed to shower because he “smelled like a ripe pile of garbage. And he was there to linger outside the bathroom door...just in case the intense fever knocked him to the floor._

_He was there when Max badly sprained her ankle and foot while skateboarding._

_“If you weren’t trying to show off with moves_ way _out of your skill range then maybe you wouldn’t hurt yourself,” Steve scolded as he pulled into an empty spot in the hospital parking lot._

_Steve had immediately answered the urgent call over the walkie talkie and dropped everything he was doing and rushed out of the house, muttering curses the entire way._

_“It wasn’t_ ‘out of my skill range, _” Max mocked. “I’ve slid on railings a thousand times.”_

_“Not on one that long! You could have hurt yourself a lot worse than this-“_

_“Okay,_ mom!” _Max snapped. “Lay off!”_

_Steve sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, jerking the door open dramatically. He knew he was being harsh and maybe a little overdramatic, especially with his own track record of doing stupid things…but it was all to hide his true concern._

_He kept picturing an unconscious Max lying on the concrete with blood pouring from her head after knocking it against the hard metal railing…_

_Max hardly had time to open her own door before Steve opened it for her and bent down, ready to lift her out like she was some kind of_ invalid.

_“I can do it myself!” she snapped._

_“Fine!” Steve snapped back._

_That was the perfect time for him to stomp ahead of her and into the hospital, but instead he remained, leaning composedly against the car with his arms crossed and sunglasses on._

_He fought the urge to snatch her up out of her seat as she struggled, yelping in pain every time she knocked her foot against the floor or the seat._

_After about thirty seconds she admitted defeat, hiccupping back tears of frustration and pain._

_“C-can you help me after all-“ she began muttering, only to be interrupted by Steve’s abrupt attentiveness._

_He leaned down and physically swiveled her legs around, careful to not knock her foot against anything. She swung her arm over his shoulders as he slid his arms under her body and scooped her up and out of the car. He swiftly kicked_ _the door shut behind him._

_“There we go,” he said, only a little strained by her weight. “You good?”_

_“Yes, thank you…” she muttered, refusing to meet his eyes._

_She wasn’t going to apologize. Nope. Wasn’t going to happen._

_Steve smirked though and snorted a small laugh._

_“Anytime, DigDig.”_

_Max had a love/hate relationship with that nickname._

_“How many times do I have to tell you, it’s_ Dig Dug!” _she said._

_“Yeah, well I like DigDig better,” he stated._

_“You’re so annoying.”_

_Steve just flashed a smile and continued carrying her inside._

_Steve was there for all of them in some way, shape, or form. He was a constant_ _presence_ _, always at the ready to aid in anything they needed help with; even though he huffed about it sometimes._

_And Dustin desperately wanted to be there for him._

_But he couldn’t...and it pained him to the core._

**.**

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**.**

Hopper pulled into the Byers’ driveway and immediately felt the spark of irritation he had been feeling ignite into a full-blown flame. Seeing Billy Hargrove sitting on the front step, looking like he was in absolutely _no_ hurry to make his exit pissed him off to no end. As far as he knew, Billy hadn’t made any moves toward completing their deal.

He should’ve known the guy was just using Steve’s situation to bum a place to stay.

Not to mention he didn’t have the common courtesy to put out his cigarette even as Hopper's cruiser came to a complete stop. The damn kid knew he was trying to quit. Or...maybe he didn’t. It didn’t matter! His very presence and the fact that he was smoking irked at his every nerve.

Hopper spared a quick glare in Billy’s direction, partly for cigarette envy and partly for the fact that he was still present in their lives. Though, as Steve gave a small whine, Hopper's attention was brought back to the task at hand.

“I know, kid. We’re here. I’m going to help you out of the car and then we can get you situated, alright?”

Steve gave a short nod.

Eleven got out of the car and hurried inside. She made eye contact with Billy as she walked up to the porch.

He fidgeted a bit under her unblinking stare.

It wasn't like she was _trying_ to look threatening. She just exuded a kind of vibe that Billy couldn’t quite put into words. It was like...he knew to not disrespect her or make her angry...and he had absolutely _no idea_ why he felt that way.

He nodded at her, and she nodded back.

Eleven walked into the house and Billy looked out toward the car again. He furrowed his eyebrows as he noticed that Hopper seemed to be lingering at the passenger side for a bit longer than necessary. He was saying something, sounding like he was trying to speak reason to whoever was in the passenger seat. Billy couldn’t see who it was, because whoever it was was crouched down or something. But he knew that it had to be Steve. He wasn’t sure who else it would be.

Billy pinched the cigarette between his middle and forefinger and stared for a few more seconds. When he saw Hopper toss the crutches to the ground behind him, he decided to put his cigarette out and go see what was going on.

He tried his best to keep his steps cool, calm, and collected.

“Come on, I gotcha,” Hopper spoke as he scooped his arms underneath Steve's legs.

“What’s going on?”

That voice set Hopper’s teeth on edge. He looked over his shoulder to see Billy Hargrove standing there, cigarette-free and staring with curiosity rather than the smug arrogance he usually carried. It was strange. There was also something else there... it looked like concern. That couldn’t be, though.

Because Billy Hargrove didn’t do concern.

Hopper chose to ignore him and focus instead on Steve. It was Steve who needed his attention, not Billy.

Hopper lifted Steve from the passenger seat as carefully as he could. Steve gave a whimpering groan as the movement jarred his joints and head, both feeling like they were trying to pound their way through his skin.

Billy watched as Hopper lifted "King Steve" out of the vehicle, cradling him in his arms like a child.

Steve's knobby knees jutted rather harshly underneath his skin. He was wearing blue and white pinstriped cotton shorts that displayed just how skinny his legs had become. He no longer carried himself on the legs of a superstar basketball player. The large gray t-shirt he was wearing held the logo of a professional football team; it seemed to hang off his frame like some sort of sleep shirt.

It honestly looked like Hopper had just dragged the guy out of bed.

“Hey, everything okay?” Billy spoke up again.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Hopper ground out as he tromped up to the house.

Billy was annoyed, but bit back any snide remarks that threatened to make their way past his lips. Hopper was clearly hoping that Billy wouldn’t follow and just stay outside. And while Billy knew he was a lot of things, a damn dog was not one of them.

He let out a sort of disgruntled growl and took a step toward the house, but a clatter at his feet alerted him to the forearm crutches that still lay on the ground.

He bent down and gathered them into his arms and walked inside.

Jonathan’s bedroom door was open and he could hear Hopper and Will speaking from within. Joyce emerged from the kitchen carrying a few lightly-steaming, damp towels. Eleven was sitting on the living room couch. She was staring at him with that...look again. It made him stand in place and not move a muscle.

How the hell did she do that? How did some little girl have that kind of effect on him? It was super fucking weird.

She looked down at the crutches in his arms and then back up at his face.

“Bedroom. Lean against the wall,” she stated softly.

Billy opened his mouth to retort that she should just do it...because he _really_ didn’t want to be in such a small space with the police chief _and_ the guy he almost killed...but for some reason he obeyed and walked in that direction anyway.

And as he stood dumbly in the doorway, watching as Joyce placed one of the toasty towels over Steve’s eyes, he felt incredibly out of place. But, again, he stepped forward into the room anyway...because he really fucking hated himself, apparently.

Hopper had been situating the other hot towels along one of Steve’s legs.

Will was sitting cross-legged on the bed. He noticed Billy’s presence first and looked at him from over his shoulder.

“I, uh...I brought...I brought these,” Billy said lamely, lifting the crutches a bit as though they couldn’t see them well enough before.

Hopper’s face actually shifted from the hard stare into one of surprise.

“Oh. Just, uh...just lean them up over here against the wall.”

Billy did as he was told, putting them at proper arm's length in case Steve needed them. Although, he didn’t look like he was going be moving around any time soon.

“So, what’s-” Billy started to ask, but Hopper purposefully interrupted.

“I need to go into work. If you’re going to be here, make yourself a'use if Steve needs anything, alright?” Hopper stated gruffly, hard expression once again present on his face.

Billy nodded curtly.

They remained in an awkward, heavy silence save for Steve’s repetitive noises of discomfort, that had thankfully softened since being laid down in the dark room with heat compresses.

“Bad weather days like these are a little rougher on him is all,” Joyce explained softly as she placed a gentle hand on Steve’s head, stroking a bit at the soft hair.

Billy looked down at Steve again. He was closer to him now, and could see the clear discomfort on his face even behind the warm cloth that covered his eyes. He wasn’t even sure if Steve knew he was there. He certainly hadn’t acted like he was aware of his presence.

Joyce continued talking, “His injuries may have healed, but he still has a really hard time with...”

Her voice seemed to disappear into the background as Billy stared at Steve’s miserable form on the bed. He was involuntarily twitching a little as he finally dozed off into a slumber. Joyce’s hand was still petting through his hair, fingertips brushing across the harsh scarring on his scalp with pass of her hand. She didn’t flinch or anything. She would just allow her fingers to move over it as though it weren’t even there.

She was stronger than Billy. So, so much stronger. Because he could hardly even _look_ at it without feeling sick to his stomach.

Will was talking now, asking about if he should fix soup or broth so Steve could take his pain medicine without it upsetting his stomach... or something. Billy wasn’t quite listening to that either.

Will was stronger than him too. In fact, he was beginning to believe every single one of them were.

And that became even more abundantly clear as he quickly left the room and walked out of the house.

He passed the sign language book that still lay open on the porch step. He didn’t even spare it a glance.

**.**

**.**

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**.**

**.**

_Joyce was leaning against the wall and staring down at the dull, mint green tile. She was using her middle finger to anxiously pick away at the loose skin underneath her thumb cuticle. The spot was going to be picked raw by the end of the day, but she could hardly feel it past how loud her thoughts were and how badly she wanted a cigarette._

_Hopper had left a little while ago to stay with the kids at her house. None of them wanted to be at their own homes alone. It was as though they all wanted to stay within arms’ reach of each other as a way to substitute being unable to be there for Steve._

_Nancy stumbled from the hospital room and back out into the hallway. She let out a heartbreaking, muffled wail against her palm as hot tears began falling from her eyes, leaving an ugly trail of mascara debris behind._

_She had known that Steve was in bad shape...really_ _, really bad._

_Hell, when Mike came tearing back into the house a few nights prior, he was in tears and looking about ready to hit anyone and anything. She hadn’t seen Mike cry like that since the night Will “died.”_

_She knew it was bad when it took hours on top of hours to receive the word that Steve was finally out of surgery._

_She knew it was bad when the doctor relayed information that even she didn’t quite understand._

_“Trauma to the eyes...heavy bruising on left...foreign objects removed from the right sclera and cornea...tarsorrhaphy...”_

_“Severe head trauma.... craniotomy...removed a flap of skull to allow drainage...”_

_“Fractured femur and tibia...”_

_She knew that Steve was in critical condition. That there was a high chance he may not even wake up or make it through at all._

_So, yeah, she knew it was going to be bad._

_But absolutely nothing could have prepared her for the discolored, damaged form of her friend lying there barely recognizable in that hospital bed._

_There was no way that was Steve. There must have been some kind of mistake. The doctor must have taken them to a different patient’s room on accident...a patient who had...had a building fall on them or something._

_Because, for fuck’s sake, that_ wasn’t Steve.

_A passing nurse stopped and asked if she was alright, but to Nancy the voice sounded so far away and muddled. It was like she was underwater. Even her movements felt like she was moving through boggy ground._

_Jonathan’s voice broke through just enough that she could recognize it. He was speaking lowly to the nurse. He was explaining that Nancy was just..._

_Just what?_

_She wasn’t even sure._

_She felt nauseous, angry, frightened, disturbed...and a thousand other words she couldn’t even begin to form. In another sense, there really_ were _no words to describe how she as feeling._

_“Nancy...Nancy, it’s okay. You're okay,” Jonathan was murmuring softly as he crouched in front of her, because at some point, she had wound up on the floor._

_“Jon-Jonathan...” she sobbed out brokenly. “That-that’s n-”_

_Jonathan was shushing her and rubbing her arms, trying to ground her, bring her back. “I know, Nance. I know...it’s okay...”_

_No, he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand!_

_He didn’t_ understand _that the person in that hospital bed wasn’t-_

 _“That’s n-not Steve, J-Jon! I-it's...it’s n-not-!” Nancy_ _hiccuped._

_“Nancy, Nancy...Nancy, hey...!” Jonathan was trying to get through to her but she just shook her head and continued sobbing._

_Joyce had moved forward to try and help calm Nancy down, but Jonathan shook his head and said, “It’s okay, mom. I’ve got her. You go in there with Steve.”_

_She hesitated, but nodded. He was probably right. Nancy didn’t need_ _a bunch_ _of people crowding around her at that moment._

_Steve was a motionless mess of purple, blue, and yellow mottled skin. He was hooked up to so many machines and fluids that she couldn’t even begin to guess what all of them were for. The heart_ _monitor_ _off to the side was displaying bright green spikes to pair with the quiet, slow beeping of Steve’s heartbeat. There was a plastic bag filled with the blood that he so desperately needed._

_There was an endotracheal tube down his throat, held in place by a relatively bulky piece of blue plastic. His left eyelids were sewn together, though the skin was stretched glossy and tight from the swelling, making it appear as though the stitching wouldn’t hold for long._

_There was absolutely no sight of the wavy, voluminous hair that had become almost famous in their small town. It had been shaved clean off...replaced by a long, gruesome, stapled incision. Even though the gauze_ _wrapped circumferentially and horizontally around his head covered the grisly sight, Joyce knew it was there. Just as she knew it was the most serious of all his injuries._

_Joyce swallowed hard and sat down in the abysmally cushioned chair. She gently took Steve’s limp hand in her own._

_Miles away in the Byers’ living room,_ _Eleven_ _had a purple bandana tied across her eyes._

_As she sat on the floor, blood dripping from her left nostril, her psyche walked across the hospital room to stand beside Ms. Byers. She watched as she grabbed Steve’s hand._

_“El?” Mike asked tentatively._

_Eleven’s lip trembled before saying, “Bad.”_

_“How bad?” Dustin asked grimly. He looked pale._

_Eleven shook her head slightly as tears slipped past the bandana._

_“Bad.”_

**.**

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for blood  
> TW for car accident  
> TW for hospital setting and description of serious injuries
> 
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